


The Demands of Empire

by TelepathJeneral



Series: Demands of Empire [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Tarkin - James Luceno
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, short summary: wilhuff goes into politics instead of the military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-03-29 06:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Wilhuff Tarkin knows Palpatine well. Their planets have been ignored by the Republic for so long, and Palpatine has shown Tarkin the way to make a name in politics. Now the galaxy is changing, and new movements are on the rise. Politics is not the simple game it once was.





	1. Chapter 1

Wilhuff Tarkin has received the news faster than others. Though Eriadu is a smaller planet, far from the Core, its representatives are dedicated and intelligent. Its sector is prominent in the Outer Rim, its location a vital stopping point for shipping lanes, and its governor is strong and resolute. Wilhuff should know, after all. As that self-same governor for the past five years, it is only right that he be informed of major changes to the galaxy’s government.

So it is that when he steps into the administration building in Eriadu’s capital, he does not wait for his aide to chase him down or beleaguer him with requests. It is simply a lift ride up to where their communication office sits, quiet at this early hour of the morning, and Wilhuff moves quickly to the main control center to knock on the surface of the paneling.

“Rina. There’s been some changes.”

Sitting up straight, the woman at the panel raises an eyebrow, reaching forward to push Wilhuff’s hand off the panel. “When half my codes stopped working, I realized something was up. Did you have some warning?”

“There were hints. Nothing concrete. But it’s the same with any military endeavor—no one can tell when it will end until it does.” Wilhuff nods, glancing around the communication center. “You’re the only one?”

“They’d have to get up pretty early to beat a Tarkin into the office.” Rina leans against her panel with both arms, her burnished-bronze hair catching the light as she nods again. “Do your parents know?”

“My parents?” Wilhuff pauses in surprise, only to earn a scoffing dismissal from Rina.

“Yes, your parents. They may have retired, but I don’t picture Uncle Brenton being pleased to learn he’s the last one to find out about the changes. This is _huge_ , Wilhuff, if I’m understanding the reality here. Our Chancellor isn’t a chancellor anymore. Am I missing something?”

Wilhuff sighs, folding his arms. “Haven’t you gotten anything from the senator?”

“All communication from our senator is restricted pending the confirmation of our newly appointed Galactic Emperor.” Rina recites in a flat monotone, tapping a fingernail against the panel. “ _Emperor_. It’s a bold move.”

“Sheev Palpatine has been generous to us before. I have no reason to suspect he’ll forget Eriadu now.” Wilhuff says, mostly to himself. “He helped us coordinate with the trade summit concerns. And we’ve been loyal throughout the war.”

“But to declare himself Emperor? Coruscant isn’t releasing any information, so I don’t know the political situation, but if he’s gagging the senators—”

“Why else would he declare himself Emperor? The Senate clearly wasn’t open to coordinating with Palpatine’s choices. Better to take decisive action now and let the senators explain it later.” Wilhuff nods to himself, glancing out the window behind Rina’s desk. “Or remove the senators altogether. I can see the appeal.”

Rina is quiet for a long moment, glancing at her desk. “You’d better start writing the speech for how we have to explain this.”

“ _We_ don’t have to explain anything. You’re simply a communications coordinator, dearest ‘Tin-a-rin’.” Wilhuff smiles, grinning as Rina offers an unamused glare.

“You’re lucky you come in to the office so early, oh grand governor Wilhuff.”

“Governor _Tarkin_ , you mean.”

“It’s not the name that’s special: it’s what you do with it.” With this final farewell, Rina shoos Wilhuff out of the communication center, prompting him to escape back into the lift before composing his schedule for the day. The ride is short, but the few minutes he took talking with Rina has allowed the lobby of the capital building to fill with people, assistants and administrators rushing to their departments in the early minutes of the working day. Right on cue, a young man in a neat brown vest comes up to where Wilhuff is standing, his datapad already queued to scroll through information.

“Governor, it seems that the report from yesterday was updated sometime in the night, and there’s a new request from the police forces that came through.”

“I don’t believe I’ll be working here today.” Wilhuff preempts any further news updates with a simple wave, earning his aide’s perplexed silence. “Forward the information to my desk computer. If there’s anything urgent, I believe you’ll be able to handle it.”

“I, um—Governor—”

“If there’s anything that goes beyond your capabilities, you can reach me at the house communicator.” Wilhuff nods, ignoring his aide’s terrified expression. “Honestly, Spinet, I sincerely doubt anything major will happen today that you can’t handle. Simply…trust me, on this.”

There is a pause, but then Spinet is nodding. “Of course, governor. I hope you enjoy your rest.”

Wilhuff says nothing, merely offering a grateful nod, and watches as Spinet rushes away to the depths of the capital to let Wilhuff leave unescorted. Perhaps it is easier if the other staff members simply assume that he’s taken a day off. It is rare for him, practically out of character, but there are no projects underway that require his immediate attention. He would be better served working from the house, consulting with his father on the developments rippling through the galaxy, and crafting a speech to record as soon as the full news release reaches Eriadu. His personal communicator will also have the information he needs to contact Palpatine, if need be—though it’s likely that Palpatine has already begun changing his personal access information.

Five years ago, Palpatine had sent a personal gift of congratulations on the day of Wilhuff’s appointment as governor. As the Senator from Naboo, Palpatine hadn’t had a reason to come to Eriadu in person, but his thorough correspondence with the young governor had bolstered their already strong friendship. In honesty, it’s only because of Palpatine that Wilhuff has even made it this far in local politics. To imagine, he’d originally thought that a military track would be more to his taste. The rigor of command, the tedium of space—no, Palpatine had been right to recommend the young Wilhuff consider political involvement. The Senator of Eriadu had been more than happy to accept a member of the Tarkin family into his personal retinue, and Wilhuff had used his time on Coruscant to scout out the weaknesses and strengths of the Republic’s network of politics.

In hindsight, the Separatist Crisis had been inevitable, with the combination of such volatile interests working on the Galactic Senate. Palpatine had been there, nudging Wilhuff to consider one senator or another, and Wilhuff had begun to understand how his training had advanced. Jova was brilliant, there was no doubt. But Jova preferred the wild of the plains, the terror of the jungle, to the back-and-forth discussions of Senate-level debate. Palpatine was better at sensing the weakness in sentient, non-animal beings, in waiting and controlling himself until the time was right to strike. With clever words and precisely timed action, Palpatine accomplished what legions of mercenaries couldn’t.

Oh, Wilhuff was no wordsmith. It was his least favorite duty, composing short messages of interest or appeasement or gratitude. But in that, too, Palpatine had introduced him to the operas and epics of galactic history, encouraging Wilhuff to absorb their rhetoric in order to rearrange it into clever letters of introduction or political presentations. Since becoming governor, Wilhuff has made an effort to support the centers of culture present on Eriadu, following the intricate dramas of Eriadu’s past and developing a taste for the flowery poetry of Eriadu’s ‘Bastion’ period.

As Wilhuff thinks over these things, sitting in the speeder conveying him back to his family’s home on the edge of the city, he determines that this next speech will have to be a long one. _He_ may understand the movement of the galaxy, but most of the population will not. The change will be frightening, even for people who have weathered far worse. His father will need to know, of course, and his mother likely knows already. Though Rina is Wilhuff’s agent, he knows his mother maintains her own networks, more convoluted and far deeper than his own spy systems. It’s just as Rina said: Brenton and Miretara Tarkin may be retired, but their understanding of Eriadu politics still rivals Wilhuff’s own.

Yes, having them review the speech will be useful before he starts recording. They’ll want to know about Palpatine’s plans, anyway, and keeping them informed will ensure their assistance in the future. Eriadu has flourished under the hand of the Tarkins, and Wilhuff has no intention of seeing it fall.

==

“You want me to do _what_?”

“The adjustment is simple, Wilhuff. You are a strong presence in the Outer Rim, even without a military background. The Empire needs to reward those who have shown strength and dedication. I believe you fit this description.”

The change in the man is staggering. The last time Wilhuff had seen the former Chancellor, his face had been mostly free of wrinkles, just beginning to show traces of age. Now the man is almost inhuman, a cowl covering the top of his head while deep lines trace across his cheeks and around his eyes. There is a hungry look to him, even across the hologram, and Wilhuff sits back as he studies the blue-tinged figure.

Palpatine is not slow, not by any means. Eriadu may be getting the news in piecemeal, only snippets at a time, but there hasn’t even been a full standard day for people to process the information. And now Palpatine is asking him to move beyond Eriadu’s sphere of influence, to move back into a pseudo-military capacity when Wilhuff had dismissed that option years ago. And for what?

“Palpatine—Emperor.  My Emperor. Surely there must be hundreds, _thousands_ of men who saw action in the Clone Wars, trained pilots and navigators who have more experience than me. Their loyalty is evident by the efficacy of your order.” It will forever be referenced only by suggestion, never by name: Order 66. Wilhuff was hard-pressed to include that information in his speech, but the Jedi have never been important to Eriadu. Like ripping off a bandage, it is easier to simply admit it and have it done. “I am glad to remain in an administrative position, perhaps replacing our senator to meet with you personally, but I worry your loyalty to me might conceal my own areas of weakness.”

“If you believe these areas to be weaknesses, then I should have good reason to appreciate your strengths.” Palpatine grins, leaning forward. “You were never strictly military, no, but you did receive your training with the Judicials. As governor, you have had to coordinate police efforts more thoroughly than any ground commander, as well as balancing the more civilian concerns of your planet. You’re right that I need strong commanders, _loyal_ commanders, but the Empire is not merely a military exercise. I encouraged you into politics in order to push you, to grow you in a direction you wouldn’t have chosen otherwise. Now I’m asking you to return to the military, bringing your administrative experience to join your military tendencies.”

Wilhuff remains quiet, processing the request as well as he can. It’s always possible that this is not a mere request—as Emperor, Palpatine may well decide that he knows what is best for Wilhuff, regardless of whether Wilhuff agrees or not. Yet the prospect makes a certain amount of sense. Wilhuff had _hated_ the early years in politics, those endless meetings and processes, the tedium of negotiation when the real action was out in the border skirmishes. Ranulph had teased him mercilessly, and he knew his father had harbored quiet concerns about Wilhuff’s choice, but he has become stronger for it. He knows the value of Palpatine’s planning, and though the skills are not directly transferrable, Wilhuff knows he could reenter the military with a minimum of training. Being a governor on the Outer Rim makes many of the same demands as a military general, what with the close proximity of the Outlands forces and the constant danger of pirates and smugglers. And if the war is officially over, then all those generals and admirals will be forced into politics. They’ll be out of their depth. Wilhuff may not enjoy the mediocre concerns of a planetary citizenship, but at least he knows what they are, and can handle their needs without too much effort.

“What would you have me do? Eriadu is still uncertain, still unsure—I’m still composing my own public reactions to your news, and we’re having to trace the HoloNet news reports more closely to ensure that misinformation isn’t filtering through. I cannot leave, not yet.”

“I may be eager for us to begin, Wilhuff, but I am not a blind optimist.” Palpatine tilts his head back, laughing harshly at the idea. “I will have a military escort come to Eriadu, using one of our Venerators. You remember the Venerators, I trust? They are the domain of the Empire now, given the removal of the Jedi, and I believe a little show of grandeur may reassure your people. It will take time for the escort to assemble, for the ship to be prepared, and for transit. You will have the time you need to calm your people as necessary, and then—well, I’ll leave it to you to decide how to break the news. I would not have you ignore Eriadu entirely, given your experience with the area, but your physical presence will be required here on Coruscant. There are great things happening, Wilhuff, great changes at hand. I want you here.”

Wilhuff offers a deep nod, smoothing his features to hide his thoughts. “I am proud to be of assistance, my Emperor.”

“And I am grateful for your understanding.” With a responding nod, Palpatine ends the communication, leaving Wilhuff alone to exhale slowly. The proposition is incredible—to leave Eriadu, to move himself back to Coruscant, to involve himself again in military concerns. Focusing on local politics has left him on the edge of galactic concerns, but Palpatine seems certain. Palpatine knows Wilhuff, apparently better than Wilhuff might know himself.

Yet Palpatine won’t be coming to Eriadu in person. He’ll be sending a military escort, full of captains and commanders with no understanding of Wilhuff’s abilities. Oh, they may be loyal to Palpatine’s orders, and they may even treat Wilhuff with the necessary formalities. But they will not accept him, not immediately, merely because he comes from a civilian position. Surely Palpatine will not be blind to this, will not be ignorant of the dynamics at play. Wilhuff can already feel the apprehension lurking in his gut, the knowledge of future problems before they’ve even begun.

He can only hope that the commander of this Venerator, this military escort, has at least a modicum of decency, and gives Wilhuff time to find his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Vader, this man in a mask...he may not be all he seems.

When the ship arrives, Eriadu is ready. The planet has adjusted well in the wake of the changes, and Wilhuff was pleased to see that his speech was not merely broadcast, but printed in the news dockets across the various continents. When the Venerator arrives, it remains in orbit, barely visible above the planet’s atmosphere, but the spaceport is cleared and the platforms empty for when the shuttle makes its descent. The public attention is palpable, as the various holo-reporters and attendants stand behind Wilhuff’s greeting party, and Wilhuff reminds himself of his duty as the tension tightens his spine.

Ranulph will certainly be watching. Rina hasn’t attended, but she is certainly plugged in to the reporter feeds, watching Wilhuff’s every move. His parents, having come into the city on the excuse of “meeting old friends”, will be preparing to evaluate the new Empire, judging its presentation and the look of its commanders. Every Tarkin in the system, and likely those outside it, will be aware of this meeting. This is a test of the Empire and of Wilhuff himself. Despite his position as governor, the undercurrent of uncertainty mars Wilhuff’s calm fortitude, and he closes his eyes to breathe deeply as the sound of the shuttle begins to echo around him.

The landing is clean and precise, the military efficacy dictating the ship’s position down to the centimeter. The wind of the landing rushes around Wilhuff, but he refuses to move, waiting until the shuttle comes to a halt and he is left facing the implacable expanse of the hull. He knows there are pilots inside, still completing their landing checks, and there are certainly spaceport staff coordinating the final checks with them. But Wilhuff’s concern is the shuttle bay door, now opening like the jaw of a reptile, and he sets his shoulders as the first figures appear in the shadows. There is white, the flash of armor familiar from his knowledge of the clone troopers, and other forms that might be ship’s officers. Yet as the party begins to descend the ramp, Wilhuff takes a breath, managing to be surprised by what he sees.

At the head of the party, a figure all in black dominates the scene. The man—if it is a man—strides forward with a confidence Tarkin has rarely seen, the troopers marching to keep up. At first glance, their leader could be mistaken for one of them: his armor, though black, is just as highly polished, and his helmet shows just as little of his expression. As he comes to a stop, several paces in front of Wilhuff, Wilhuff finally notes the cape that swishes around the leader’s legs, adding another layer of menace to the man’s presence.

Whatever Wilhuff had been expecting as a reception, it certainly wasn’t _this_.

“Governor Wilhuff Tarkin.” The voice is deep, filtered through a mask that somehow removes none of its power. Wilhuff relies on his assumption that the figure is male and nods once, stepping forward while remaining in parade rest.

“At the service of the Emperor and his representative.”

The figure scans the landing platform, quiet in the wake of Wilhuff’s response. Finally, he returns his masked interest to Wilhuff himself, and Wilhuff tries to study the helmet’s front to gain some insight.

“You have no escort? No accompaniment, or aide?”

“As the governor of Eriadu, my staff is best suited to serve the population here.” Wilhuff bows his head, processing the man’s confusion. “I will accept whatever staff the Emperor chooses to assign, given the changes he proposed. For this excursion, however, I understand that I am a mere passenger, subject to your authority as the Emperor’s representative in this sector.”

Again the figure is quiet, and Wilhuff tries not to let his irritation show. The language of diplomacy requires at least some communication, especially since he cannot read the man’s face.

“I am Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.” It is evident that the man puts great weight in this title, though Wilhuff has never heard the names before and knows nothing of their meaning. “I will be your escort to Coruscant. If you are ready now, the shuttle is prepared.”

Wilhuff blinks, taken aback, but if nothing else he can admire the man’s directness. “I look forward to the journey.”

“Good.” With a single economical movement, Vader turns on a heel to begin marching back into his ship, the troopers parting into neat lines to allow him passage. Wilhuff hesitates for a moment—just a moment—but steps forward to follow as it seems is expected of him. The social protocol of various events is never certain, but Wilhuff has never gone wrong simply by asserting his natural rights, be they his as administrator, governor, or honored guest. Though the swiftness of this departure might tempt others to linger, draw their gaze to the skyline they won’t see for some time, Wilhuff knows that even the slightest deviation here will mean measures to his audience.

For Palpatine, the hesitation might be enough for him to question Wilhuff’s utility to a larger Empire.

For the people of Eriadu, the pause might indicate a loyalty to Eriadu greater than a loyalty to the Emperor—and a pretense for later insurrection.

For Wilhuff’s parents, the pause will mean weakness, the sentimentality of an animal afraid to leave its favored hunting grounds. The change _is_ frightening—as all change must necessarily be—but Wilhuff has already faced this concern. He has resolved to follow Palpatine down this dangerous path, into the thickets where greater dangers lie. He trusts Palpatine. And even if Palpatine chooses not to come in person, if he sends this _Vader_ with his masked half-threats and storm of angry presence, Wilhuff will obey. He will not play the puppy forever, but he will obey.

As Wilhuff steps into the shuttle, troopers filing in behind him, Vader directs him to a small seating area just behind the cockpit, using only a gesture to invite Wilhuff inside. Wilhuff is reluctant to sit before Vader does, but the issue is resolved when Vader leaves altogether, stepping back into the bay with the stormtroopers to leave Wilhuff alone in the passenger space. For the first time, Wilhuff exhales a held breath, settling into a seat to focus on the wall in front of him, and barricades himself for the days ahead.

With great risk comes great reward. Jova would never say it in quite those terms, but the essence of the idea is similar enough. If Wilhuff can see himself through to the end of this—if he can be tested, and proved worthy—then perhaps he will finally see the result of all his years of effort.

+++

The interior of the Venerator feels raw to Wilhuff’s first impression: its walls are bare and empty, places opening with gaping holes to show only the drop to engineering far below. He was assigned an aide the moment he stepped on board the ship—the man is probably around his age, given the brief glance he got, and has already disappeared to arrange Wilhuff’s quarters. Vader too has left, escaping into the labyrinth of ship’s corridors to arrange their departure from the planet. Wilhuff reminds himself that this is no more than he expected: he is a political figure, that is all, and he has no right to demand special treatment simply because of his rank. The military men of this ship have their own concerns.

Despite this, he can feel how out of place he is. Rather than letting this insecurity consume him, however, he charts a path up through the Venerator, remembering the plans he’d scanned months and years ago. The Outlands didn’t have Venerators, of course, since that model was strictly for Republic use, but he’d had to study them in the past. The central command column is distinctive enough to remember, and he is pleased to find that his rank code allows him entry to some of the unused briefing rooms. They are dark, but the light switch is simple enough to operate, and Wilhuff finds himself relaxing as he pulls up a data display with the ship’s roster. Information is power, and it is here that he will find his feet.

The Venerator is certainly familiar enough, but as Wilhuff scans through the reports, he’s aware of just how much has changed. There are no longer alphabet-class starships in the hangar bays, but new TIE fighters, looking more like insects clustered on rotting fruit than actual ships. Wilhuff makes a mental note to review their specifications later, and instead looks to the crew numbers to understand what exactly he’s looking at.

This Vader, whoever he is, is certainly no small fish. The force of troopers available would be enough to pacify a large city, or to lock down a colony of at least moderate size, and a collection of walkers is bundled in the center of the Venerator like puppies in a bitch’s womb. If Wilhuff knows Palpatine—and he flatters himself to think he does—then Vader is no overblown warlord. This is a flagship, the leader of a new Imperial fleet, which will consolidate the rough boundaries of the Empire and keep it locked under Palpatine’s control.

As Wilhuff considers the dimensions of this ship, and its meaning, the door to his claimed briefing room hisses open to admit a rush of light and noise. Darth Vader steps inside, breaking Wilhuff’s concentration, and Wilhuff tenses as the other man faces him.

“Good. Your presence is requested on the bridge.”

Wilhuff blinks in surprise, but offers a deep nod. “I would be honored to see the workings of this ship from its command center.”

Vader says nothing, either in confirmation or denial, and simply turns back to exit into the hallway. Again, Wilhuff feels the presumption of his accompaniment, and again he falls into step, perplexed by the man in front of him. He has learned more about Vader’s ship, but he still knows little about the man himself. Where did he come from? What are his qualifications, what kind of action has he seen? Is the mask merely a pretense, a holdover from some parochial childhood? Or is he truly non-human, and masking his alienhood at the Emperor’s request?

In the end, it probably means little. Wilhuff will leave this ship and never see Vader again, making the mystery insignificant. Still, it sits in the back of his mind as he ascends to the bridge, moving behind Vader as they step into the wide expanse of the bridge and into the movement of activity. Though its aspect is military, Wilhuff can still sense the threads of connection between the various actors here. Just like in the city center, there are administrators and lackeys, directors and peons, leaders and followers. Vader moves here the way Wilhuff moves through his own administration, a single force redirecting the flow of movement.

“We haven’t yet gone to lightspeed.” Wilhuff notes, surprised to find himself speaking aloud. Vader glances back at him, but does not stop until they reach the nose of the bridge.

“We are close to Seswenna. The Emperor has requested that I remain in real-space to allow a garrison of troopers to shuttle to the planet.”

“Seswenna.” Wilhuff nods to himself, watching the orb of the planet rotate into view on the starboard side. He has had reason to avoid the planet, given the late Count Dooku’s entrenchment there, and the sector has been divided by the concerns of the Republic and the Seperatists. With Dooku’s death, it is possible that the sector can be reunited, but Wilhuff hasn’t yet turned his attention to that work. “Have there been further disturbances there?”

Vader nods shortly, giving no further information, and Wilhuff watches the planet closely as a shuttle departs from the side of the Venerator. Like Eriadu, Seswenna is a prosperous planet, despite its location on the Outer Rim, and its people are intelligent and resourceful. Dooku was a prime example of that, even if his endeavors eventually failed. The political ramifications of Dooku’s rebellion have been—and still could be—dangerous for Eriadu, but Wilhuff is confident that time will heal all wounds. Even those of the Clone Wars.

Movement to his left breaks him from his reverie, and even as Vader remains still, Wilhuff moves to the port side of the bridge to watch the flicker of other ships. They are difficult to find with the naked eye, but there is a purpose in their direction that makes Wilhuff focus on them. Like fishing in the wilderness, it is patience that will reward him here, and when a sudden movement darts across his view, Wilhuff tenses.

“Vader. Your shuttle is under attack. There’s a party of belligerents shuttling out from the third moon, dodging through other traffic.” Wilhuff turns, not waiting for Vader’s reply. “Ensign, bring up shields along the forward bow. If they don’t know we’ve detected them—”

“Do as he says, Ensign.” Vader confirms without moving from his position, even as Wilhuff begins to pace along the pit.

“Your shuttle, Lord Vader.”

“The shuttle is more agile than the _Executor_. Focus your concern here, where you stand.”

Wilhuff shakes his head, surprised by the sentiment even as he claims a tactical readout. “They’re still trying to cloak. Permission to fire on them, Lord Vader—”

“Send the command, Governor Tarkin.” Vader nods, leaving Wilhuff to begin typing his order. There is no time for reflection now, only action, and Wilhuff finds that his orders process without hesitation to the hangar bays. His view of the other ships is confirmed by sensor readouts, and he forwards the information to the gunners in the pit to watch them calibrate the guns. With a series of shots, a large ship suddenly de-cloaks, shuddering as her shields absorb the impact.

“Focus the guns on that ship. Have the pilots maintain visual scanning as they move.” Wilhuff moves away from his terminal, coming back to the bridge viewports, then glances to the pit to watch the crew move. “Your pilots do know how to use visual scanning in those cotton balls you call fighters, yes?”

“Of course, Governor Tarkin.” A commander of unsure rank looks up, meeting Wilhuff’s gaze before quickly looking back to his station.

“Good. If our sensors can’t provide oversight, then it is up to the pilots to find their own targets.” Wilhuff nods slowly, turning as Vader shifts in place. “Lord Vader.”

“You’ve sent out two squadrons.”

“One for each side of the ship. They’ll try a run on each side, and there’s no need to hold back when the opposing force is so small.”

“And you aren’t concerned that the squadrons will clutter the field?”

“Is that a concern with Imperial pilots?” Wilhuff snaps back, tensing as he realizes the implications of his statement. “That is. Lord Vader—”

“I’m surprised. That is all. Commanders do not often commit a full force without knowing the dimensions of their enemy’s forces.”

“Two squadrons is not the ‘full force’ of this ship.” Wilhuff tries hard—he honestly does—to keep the derision from his tone, but even as a bloom of explosion is visible through the viewports, he simply watches Vader. “Committing two squadrons to deal with Seperatist insurrection is well worth the potential risk for the stir this will generate in the HoloNet. The Empire needs to show strength here, not weakness. Action, not inaction.”

“You said yourself we did not have sensor readings for the force—”

“They’re based on a moon, Lord Vader, they are not bringing an _armada_.” Wilhuff shakes his head, turning back to the pit crew. “Any damages to the ship?”

“None, sir. They didn’t even get a chance to fire.” A crew member steps atop a low ridge, raising herself above the pit to face Wilhuff. “They’ve fired on our TIEs, but their maneuverability is low, and the TIEs can easily outrun them. With your permission, we can bring in the command ship and determine if there are prisoners.”

“You have tractors?” Wilhuff receives a short nod in reply, and confirms the order. “Bring in the command ship, but no others. The TIEs can do as they wish. I’ll want the pilots to compile a full report, but they’re likely to be droid ships without prisoners. Use them as target practice.”

There are no further statements, either to confirm or deny Wilhuff’s orders, and he turns back to the viewport to find Vader watching him. The steady, unmoving gaze of the mask unnerves Wilhuff, though he knows there is no reason for this unease, and he returns the gaze for a moment before nodding. Outside, the movements of ships are visible as they rise over the level of the Venerator’s bow, and Wilhuff watches the TIEs pursue the larger, slower craft of their would-be attackers. There is the potential that the other ships have pilots, and are not all droid ships, but the information is inconsequential. Wilhuff does not doubt that they are Seperatists, or Seperatist remnants. This close to Seswenna, he would have been surprised if there was not some attempt at resistance when a Republic ship appeared so close to the planet.

And yet Palpatine had ordered Vader to bring the ship carrying Wilhuff to such a precarious position.

Interesting.

Though he does not know the full specifications of the TIE fighters, Wilhuff notes how they have the advantage of speed over the other models. They are clearly not designed for atmospheric battles, but excel in the vacuum of space, and their short wingspan allows them to follow formations even tighter than A-wings could follow. With a full force, with all squadrons deployed, or with other accompanying Venerators, the TIEs could fill the entire expanse of a space battle, swarming their enemies in moments.

“You find the efficiency of the Empire impressive.” Vader says, prompting Wilhuff to tense again. With a moment of consideration, Wilhuff offers a nod.

“I’m disappointed that I did not learn about the TIEs earlier. Their implications for space battle are significant.”

“The Emperor has been careful not to give out information until it is needed. As the Venerators are refitted with TIE squadrons, they will move to the Outer Rim.”

“I would see that they do.” Wilhuff nods again, feeling his tension ease as the adrenaline of conflict subsides. He can feel Vader’s attention, the quiet silence of the pit crew—too silent, as they listen to their superiors talk. There is not a place for Wilhuff here, no area or role for him to fill. Without the distraction of conflict, he is lost.

“With your permission, Lord Vader, I’d like to find my quarters. I have much to review before we make planetfall on Coruscant.”

Vader sweeps a hand to one side, offering a half-bow. “Please, Governor Tarkin. Now that this minor diversion has been addressed, our transit will go smoothly.”

“I hope it does.” Wilhuff says sharply, turning on one heel to leave the bridge. Once out of the sight of the crew, he can feel their curiosity disappear, the pressure of attention lifting from his shoulders.

He has much to do. Much has changed in the Inner Rim, and on Coruscant, while Wilhuff has been distracted with local concerns. Palpatine is dragging him back, thrusting him into the limelight, and Wilhuff needs to be prepared.

Given his success today, he may not need as much preparation as he originally thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader is a single man: a powerful man, perhaps, but still only a single man. And Palpatine will not always favor him if there are other advantages to be gained.

Coruscant is much as Wilhuff remembers it, giving him both a sense of familiarity and a pang of homesickness as the shuttle takes him down from orbit. The dome of the Senate building sits like a mushroom on its own platform, but the traffic is not so stifling here; instead, the transit is practically painless, and Wilhuff finds himself able to stand as they finish landing. There is a minimum of speech as the landing party leaves the shuttle, and Wilhuff is left with his own thoughts as he is escorted across the walkways and into the Senate’s interior.

Vader has come, of course. Wilhuff assumes the man’s been given a specific order, some direction to deliver Wilhuff personally to the Emperor. His presence is almost unnoticeable, in contrast to his earlier menace and dynamic power, and Wilhuff tries not to focus too much on his escort. His role is to join Palpatine’s plans for politics, not get involved with the power struggles of a military commander. Vader has his role to play in Palpatine’s schemes.

As their trooper escort stops, Vader and Wilhuff move through the upper floors of the Senate building, the lush carpet muffling their movements. Wilhuff remembers his earlier years here, the stifling luxury of the Senate’s décor, and he keeps the disdain from his expression as they turn down a final hallway. Two guards, in brilliant red cloaks, wait beside a closed door, and they turn in unison as Wilhuff and Vader pass.

Once they’re inside, Wilhuff ignores Vader completely: his role instead is to move forward, offering a low bow practiced over years of diplomatic meetings. Palpatine is already facing the door, the contours of his seat rising high above his shoulders, and Wilhuff closes his eyes to rehearse his greeting. The bow completed, Wilhuff stands, squaring himself in relation to the Emperor before speaking.

“My Emperor, it is a pleasure and an honor to be invited here. I speak on behalf of my people, the citizens of Eriadu, when we say that our loyalty to your Empire is absolute. Whatever services we can render, we are eager to oblige.”

Palpatine’s smile is quick and sharp, but Wilhuff notes how his eyes flicker between Wilhuff and Vader. “You see, Lord Vader, not every planet-side politician is as ignorant of our abilities.” Though Palpatine does not stand, his attention returns to Wilhuff, prompting him to click his heels together in pseudo-military attention. “Wilhuff. It is an honor to have you back on Coruscant. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“Not so, my Emperor—but minor security concerns should not trouble you.” Wilhuff raises a hand to wave away the statement. “It has been…years, hasn’t it. There’s been a war.”

Palpatine laughs, wheezy and hacking. “The small matter of the Clone Wars, yes, Wilhuff. When you last saw me, I was not like this.”

“No, you were hardly the most powerful man in a new Empire of your own creation. You were a backwater politician from an underserved planet.” Wilhuff allows himself his own smile, studying Palpatine. “And you have come so far.”

“Do not think that my triumphs have made me ignorant of my true allies.” Palpatine nods, gesturing to Vader to have the dark-suited lord come to his side. “Wilhuff, you are the strongest presence in the Outer Rim. You provided a stronghold for our forces as they moved, and you resisted Dooku’s entreaties, even when his armies lay at your very doorstep. There is no one I trust more to manage the sectors beyond the Mid Rim.”

Wilhuff accepts the praise without reaction, though the trickle of success sparks in giddy bursts across his spine and fingertips. “You give me far too much credit, my Emperor.”

“And you refuse to take it. I hope you believe I advised you correctly: in a political position, you were far more capable of seeing problems before they arose and addressing them properly. The military is useful, yes, but I would prefer to find alternative solutions to our problems. That is where politics has its place.”

“You foresee problems.” Wilhuff says, clasping his hands behind his back. Palpatine’s grin informs him that he’s seen the issue appropriately, and Palpatine nods quickly.

“Not every planet will be so glad as Eriadu to learn of the formation of the Empire. Not every governor is so lucky as to enjoy my confidence. And the Senators, well—” Palpatine waves a hand dismissively, his derision clear. “The system had become over-encumbered. But the senators will cling to their positions, if only because they have nothing of real value to contribute to the rest of the galaxy.”

Wilhuff’s smile sharpens, but as he considers the situation, his glee fades. “You removed the Jedi. May I ask why?”

“The Jedi had joined the Senators as a blight on the galaxy.” It is not Palpatine that speaks—instead, it is Vader who faces Wilhuff, his arms folded across his chest. “You did not see them act. They had inserted themselves into the functioning of the Republic to leech off its needs and movements, attempting a moral high ground while engaging in the perpetuation of war.”

“In fairness, Lord Vader, few of us in the Outer Rim have ever seen the Jedi.” Wilhuff nods in diplomatic deference, looking between Vader and Palpatine. It is not like Palpatine to destroy things entirely: like with Wilhuff, he prefers to save them, waiting until they can be useful. There must be something of the Jedi, some element of the force-sensitives that Palpatine has kept. It may be hidden, it may remain hidden for years, but Palpatine has _something_ in reserve.

Asking before Palpatine is ready will only end in disaster, however, and so Wilhuff moves from the topic. “Your plans continue to be grandiose, my Emperor. You made only vague references, some general outlines, in our various transmissions.”

“Wilhuff, your caution is prudent, but the purpose of inviting you here is to illustrate that such caution is no longer necessary.” For the first time, Palpatine stands, advancing through the room to draw closer to Wilhuff. Their statures are close enough for them to look each other in the eye, and Wilhuff thrills to see the heat of eager energy in Palpatine’s look. “I _want_ you, Wilhuff. I need you in my Empire. The Outer Rim has always been an area of difficulty for the Republic to accommodate, but you know it. You live there, you know the needs and demand of the planets there, and you’ve kept the borders secure while the Inner Rim debated the movements of war. The senators failed to see the reality of the galaxy, Wilhuff, where you’ve _lived_ it.”

“I accept any position you choose to grant, my Emperor, but I warn you that a transfer to a military position is no simple movement.” Wilhuff nods, feeling his old uncertainties return. “In a military environment, subordinates need to trust their superiors, to have a certain rapport. The men of the Outlands Forces may trust me, to an extent, but I am still a civilian authority. Men who’ve seen action in the Clone Wars will never accept me.”

“They _will_ accept you, or rue their blindness.” Palpatine’s sudden intensity flares, making Wilhuff pause, but the Emperor quickly relaxes again to offer a knowing smile. “You are not the only man who is being approached with these plans. There are corporations here in the Core, influential families across the Mid and Inner Rim—I seek to bring their business knowledge into the Imperial fold. They will also be given military duties, though of course, I would not want them to act beyond their capabilities. We have time, Wilhuff, time in which this administration can breathe and grow. But we cannot linger or tarry. Vader informs me that already there are secessionist groups clinging to life in the Outer Rim, local uprisings that may find power and money in certain backers. These cannot be allowed to develop.”

“Already there is resistance.” Wilhuff nods, thinking back to the firefight near Seswenna. The first of many? “I would be honored to accept any role you give me.”

“I will be appointing you moff of the Seswenna sector, Wilhuff.” Palpatine nods, turning to sit back in his chair. “The role is not a new one, per se—it has been used before—but not by the Republic. It will combine administrative, military, and civilian duties, ideally at a sector level.”

“A sector…” For the first time, Wilhuff is unsure of what to say, and he stares into space as he considers the scope. Not a single planet, but entire systems, the lanes and routes of a sector. It would be easier, certainly, to manage everything himself. But Eriadu has dangerous neighbors, and he has no clue of what the political ramifications of such an expansion might mean. “I would be administrating Seswenna. The entire sector. And you say others are also going to be these…‘moffs’.”

“Each sector will need oversight. I have grander plans than this, but with time, with time.” Palpatine nods, clasping his hands together, and looks back to Wilhuff. “I do not plan to keep you on Coruscant long. But with your time here, I can show you the full dimensions of your role. You may also want to consider looking into a new uniform—though I leave that to your discretion. Ships, battalions, walkers, all this should be on your mind. I trust you will meet the task sufficiently.”

“My senator.” Wilhuff breaks in, surprised by the rush of information. “Eriadu still has a senator, somewhere, and some of my staff are unsure—”

“Wilhuff, please.” Palpatine exhales slowly, but stands again. “Better not to concern yourself with his fate. The Senate is finished. It will take years for its death throes to subside, but it is dead.”

Wilhuff draws breath to respond, then finds nothing to say. He remembers serving with the senator, the early years in politics—and now that has been erased in a single day. He may have enough influence to at least warn the senator, sending him back to Eriadu for one reason or another, and at least head off the issue before it arises.

As a moff, he’ll have to take on the senator’s responsibilities anyway. Fortunately, it seems Palpatine’s Empire is not one to be burdened by petitions or the passing of bills, the formation of committees or the organization of voting blocs. In short, the _useless_ portions of politics. By consolidating all these roles into the single figurehead of “moff”, things will become more efficient. It is certainly possible, and Wilhuff finds himself looking forward to the challenge.

“My last concern, Wilhuff.” Palpatine is speaking again, moving to stand beside the viewport of his office. “I do want you to return to the Outer Rim quickly. I need you there. But your point about your military experience is well-taken. As such, I plan to send Vader with you. You may consider him a security escort, a military attaché, a consultant on technical matters, even my personal representative.”

Palpatine has his back to both Wilhuff and Vader now, watching the movement of Coruscanti traffic below them. “You both have your areas of experience. For the Empire to flourish, it is better that you put your efforts towards working together, rather than against one another. My lack of tolerance for petty squabbles should be evident—you are to solve your problems yourselves, not by consulting me. I may be the Emperor, but I have chosen both of you to act in my stead. In order to be effective, you must be able to work without my input.”

Wilhuff blinks in surprise as Palpatine continues, glancing to Vader. The other man has turned to watch the Emperor, but Wilhuff can see the tension in the span of his shoulders and the fist of one hand. This assignment is just as surprising for Vader as it is for Wilhuff—Palpatine’s idea of equal footing, it seems.

“My Emperor, if you plan to assign other moffs, then perhaps I should remain on Coruscant to consult with them. A unity of purpose would be stronger than having me run to the Outer Rim—”

“I will manage the other moffs. It will be stronger for you to return in glory, having pacified the Outer Rim, and then assert yourself in a conference. Let me worry about the others.” Palpatine raises a hand again, dismissing Wilhuff’s concerns. “Go now. You have much to accomplish.”

Wilhuff nods, straightening to offer another bow. However, before he can back out of the room, Vader is stepping forward to catch Palpatine’s attention.

“You mean for me to accompany him _now_?”

“I have nothing else for you.” Palpatine turns, and Wilhuff is suddenly struck by the feeling that he is not meant to see this conversation. The way they stand, the posture Vader adopts—there is a dangerous intimacy here he has not seen before. “Your work has been exemplary so far, Darth Vader. But I would not only have you track down individual bounties and raid minor outposts. This aspect of the Empire is equally as important. And Governor Tarkin may lead you to greater sport.”

Vader is silent, and Wilhuff keeps his eyes lowered as he backs out of the room. He is not _escaping_ , but he is making a tactical retreat. As he leaves the room, he turns to walk back towards the lifts, trying not to focus on Vader’s reaction to the news of his assignment.

At least he’ll learn more about this figure, this ‘Darth’. He clearly knows the Emperor well, and Palpatine wouldn’t put them together if there wasn’t some common ground. Besides which, Wilhuff has Palpatine’s approval. His assignment as ‘moff’ will only solidify his value to the Empire. Greatness is on the horizon, close enough for him to touch.

This Vader will respect him, no matter what he thinks of Wilhuff now.

+++

After the hubbub of the ceremony, after the rush of meetings and committees and introductions (and the obsequious fawning of far too many Imperial lackeys), Wilhuff finds himself both on edge and relaxed in an odd paradox. His new uniform is perfectly fitted, the clean lines mimicking his usual attire on Eriadu, and the plaque on his chest catches the light in ways he hadn’t expected. People give him attention on Coruscant not because of his position, since they can hardly be expected to recognize a minor governor from the Outer Rim, but because Palpatine has invested in him.

The sensation is…unnerving.

He can feel the itch, the need for action, even as he reads through another bundle of technical readouts, and it is only when his aide appears in a doorway that Wilhuff pauses to look up. The man is as silent as the grave, most of the time, and even on the Venerator, they’d barely spoken a word to each other. As such, Wilhuff pauses to consider his words carefully, watching the other man stare at the ground.

“You didn’t expect me to be made a moff, did you.”

“It wasn’t surprising. When I was assigned to you, no one knew why we were escorting you to Coruscant. This is as good a reason as any.”

Wilhuff nods once. “Do you think Vader will reassign you when we leave the planet? I haven’t been given a ship yet—” Not that he particularly needs or wants one, but Palpatine has certainly hinted at it. “—and it seems Lord Vader will be responsible for…ferrying me around the galaxy. Gods.” He shakes his head to himself, turning aside to set down his datapad. “That’s what I’ve become, isn’t it. Inconvenient cargo.”

“In fairness, sir, it’s not as if you’re _useless_ cargo.” The aide pauses, squaring his shoulders. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“What? Of course, go on—” Wilhuff waves a hand for him to continue, realizing the scope of the man’s military training.

“You’re a governor. That in itself is important enough for us to take notice. And it’s not as if your service record is _blank_ , after all. You have records from Coruscant. And for those cadets from the Outer Rim, you’re more notable than you might think.” The man offers a half-shrug, finally looking up to face Wilhuff fully. “I wouldn’t mind remaining your aide, sir, as long as you’re on Vader’s ship. The Emperor clearly has plans for you.”

“And you want to be there when those plans come to fruition.” Wilhuff smiles to himself. “You could remain with Lord Vader and see equal benefits. The Emperor favors him, too.”

“Vader is…” The man hesitates, looking to one side. “He doesn’t have a record. The crew of the _Executor_ follow his orders, but it’s not often clear what exactly he _does_. Forgiving my frankness, sir.”

“Forgiven.” Wilhuff waves away the comment, moving away from his position by the window to approach the man. “Consider yourself my liaison to Vader, then—he should be aware that I’m planning to leave shortly. If he is ready, I can be available.”

“And your belongings?”

 “Ah.” Wilhuff pauses. “That’s right. I have a set of uniforms now. I assume there’s a way for them to be transferred onto the ship, the way you did when we left Eriadu?”

The aide bows from the waist, allowing himself a smile. “That is my role as your aide, Governor—Moff Tarkin. It shall be done.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Wilhuff taps a finger against his chin, moving through the doorways to exit into the hallway of the building. “’Governor’ sounds better, doesn’t it? There’s a better rhythm when paired with ‘Tarkin’. I think I’ll have you call me ‘Governor’, instead. I still have claim to the title, after all, even if I’m being promoted.”

“Governor Tarkin, then.”

“Yes. Much better.” Wilhuff nods. “I leave you to your work, Captain. I will see you on board.”

With a quick salute, the aide nods, then disappears down a side hallway, leaving Wilhuff to his wanderings. The simple matter of a shuttle ride, then he’ll be back in space—not as a passenger, but as part of the Imperial machine.

He looks forward to the novelty of the position.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being part of the Empire means that one will gain enemies.

As Wilhuff traces the lines of his uniform, he considers how odd it looks when not in the stark light of an Imperial ship. The capital center here on Seswenna has a predilection for reds and browns, meaning that the gray of the Imperial military looks washed out and dull. The light is too soft, blurring the edges of the Empire’s clean lines. As he checks himself for wrinkles, brushing away specks of dust, he reviews the outline of his speech in his head, reminding himself of what has worked in the past.

Short and simple will work well. It always works well. The people of Eriadu prefer a politician who does not waste their time, and Wilhuff has always provided. There is no reason to think Seswenna will feel any differently.

A reminder of Imperial power will be necessary, but Wilhuff knows he cannot rely only on that to enforce his authority. Seswenna has a long history of its own, and will not be cowed by flashy displays. Not that this has gotten through to Vader—the man insists on dominating any room he enters, even as Wilhuff tries to keep their discussions strictly political. The nuances of Seswenna politics are lost to the dark mask, and Wilhuff has come close—though never given in to the impulse—to ordering Vader out of the room entirely.

Wilhuff _knows_ people on Seswenna. It is not Eriadu, but he has acquaintances here from years ago, and he has relied on these relationships over the first few days of his visit. Administrator Villak has been kind enough not to ask probing questions, and has instead insisted on Seswenna’s loyalty to the new Empire. The local mayor, though easily impressed by Wilhuff’s attention, has provided quarters without hesitation, and Wilhuff has been generally pleased with his reception. Seswenna will be useful for the Empire. And Wilhuff can convince them of his position, his _qualification_ , without resorting to petty name-calling and sniping at local government. Maintain the status quo, and slip in unnoticed. That is how he will win Seswenna.

As Wilhuff adjusts his tunic, he turns partially to see Vader standing behind him, watching as is his wont. They’ve barely spoken ten words to each other over the past three days, and Wilhuff is still hard-pressed to determine how Vader feels about this situation. This was Wilhuff’s itinerary, yes, and he dictated their schedule. Vader has made no complaints, and offered no changes, yet he has always been there, simply watching. Waiting. Wilhuff reviews his speech once more in his head, then nod once to Vader.

“Stay close.”

“What?” Vader starts in surprise, and Wilhuff realizes that the quiet observation doesn’t always mean Vader is paying attention.

“You’re my security escort, aren’t you? Stay close when I go out there. Seswenna is a civilized planet, but the people still have their pride.”

Vader watches Wilhuff for a moment, but says nothing, nodding as Wilhuff takes a deep breath. Finally, Wilhuff admits there is nothing left to prepare, and he moves to the door to have it open before him.

The gathered assembly is small, with no HoloNet reporters—the ideal audience. With the weight of his plaque sitting heavy on his chest, Wilhuff steps forward, hearing the footfalls of Vader behind him as he comes to the low podium.

“Men and women of Seswenna.” He begins carefully, watching how the audience turns their attention as one. If anything, they are dressed more opulently than civil servants on Eriadu, their rich fabrics catching the light. “Your planet has undergone much. Has _endured_ much. But the importance of Seswenna to the galaxy has never faded. We have watched the Outer Rim draw the attention of Core politicians, using the Rim planets for their own Inner Core complaints, but only recently has the Outer Rim begun to make real strides in the Senate. The Republic, alas, is no more. But in this Empire, our strengths will be realized. Our purposes will be made clear, united in a singular goal. No more will petty politics complicate relations. In the establishment of a single system, united under a single figure, the sector will no longer be merely an ‘outer rim’ sector.

“Do not let the creation of the title ‘moff’ disrupt your normal proceedings. The Emperor is sensitive to the needs of local politics, and he has no need to uproot your governor, your senator, or even your business interests. I have been appointed Moff Tarkin. But remember that I was first, and will remain, _Governor_ Tarkin, based on Eriadu and conscious of her needs. I will need the input of your people, the insight of your governor, in order to serve the Empire properly as Moff, and I assure you that my own experiences on Eriadu will not bias me for or against other planets. There are multiple agencies and businesses that work with both planets: you may think of the Empire in the same way. Give us time to prove that the Empire has Seswenna’s best interests at heart, and we will repay your attention.”

Wilhuff pauses, scanning the crowd to judge their careful attention. There is no anger in this crowd, no lingering resentment, and Wilhuff is pleased to find that the people of Seswenna are reasonable. Dooku, it seems, was the outlier.

“Change is not foreign to our sector. Evolution, _improvement_ , requires change. There are movements in the galaxy, movements transforming the entire foundation of human experience. Let Seswenna follow these movements, and the Outer Rim will become the center of galactic potential.”

He concludes with a nod, gratified to hear a smattering of applause, and as he moves away from the podium, an older man is already moving forward to shake his hand. Behind him, near the wall, Administrator Villak offers a congratulatory nod, grinning as Wilhuff is drawn into an extended handshake.

“Moff Tarkin—we received the news earlier, and I hadn’t realized it was _you_.”

“Governor Petrell.” Wilhuff nods, reclaiming his hand with a twinge of pain. “I’m sorry for the abrupt changes, but Emperor Palpatine is not a man to hesitate. I trust I will have your cooperation in communicating the news quickly?”

“Of course.” The governor nods, his smile too broad and easy. “We have always been a friend to Eriadu, of course, even with our differences, but—”

“My place is not born of my allegiances to Eriadu.” Wilhuff cuts in, raising a hand. “The Emperor is aware of the intricacies of local needs, and sought a local authority. The position of ‘moff’ is merely…administrative, for now. Rather than coordinating the needs and demands of thousands of senators, the Emperor will consult local moffs and allow them to act with their own authority. I trust you’ve read the law: its efficiency should be clear.”

“I. Of course.” Governor Petrell hesitates, his smile faltering, and Wilhuff leans close to grasp his arm with a firm—though he hopes not _too_ firm—grip.

“Think of me no longer as your rival from Eriadu, governor. I am a moff. I am _your_ moff. Planets are only important as the sector requires them. Time will prove the Empire’s worth; better that you wait patiently and use the channels available to you. I will not forget Seswenna.”

The governor waits, watching Wilhuff closely, then finally pulls away to nod quickly. “I have someone already transmitting the speech through Seswenna. I will not let minor concerns upset your transfer, Moff Tarkin.”

“The Empire is grateful to have such loyal servants.” Wilhuff offers a thin smile, watching the governor depart, and he senses Vader drawing close behind him as the other observers talk amongst themselves.

“You made no mention of Seswenna’s betrayal during the war. A crucial point, I would think.”

“Dooku’s presence here was not a poison on its politics. He was a dynamic leader. An inspiring politician.” And a fool who ended up on the wrong side. But no matter. “Referencing Dooku would only engender bitterness. The people here _know_ they were wrong to follow Dooku. The lessons of the war were made clear even before the Empire was established, and the loss of the Separatist leaders was a clear signal. Petrell and his subordinates will not seek to disrupt the established order. That is where the Empire flourishes, isn’t it? Order?”

Vader is quiet, and Wilhuff has to turn to face him to get any sense of what the man is thinking. “Yet you believe you will be in danger.”

“The politicians here are smart. But Dooku may still have followers. Our mere presence here could cause reactions we cannot predict.” Wilhuff nods, struck by Vader’s stiffness in this arena of interpersonal communication. “You don’t mention Dooku. You believe all of Seswenna was complicit in his betrayal.”

“Dooku was a leader. If we ignore the conditions that produced him, then we forgive entire systems fundamentally broken in their assumptions.”

Wilhuff snorts in derision, folding his arms. “It’s that simple, is it? Crush the planet, and they will never rise against us? That may work on minor colony outposts, some tiny mining asteroid, but Seswenna is a planet with billions of citizens. It would cost more for us to pacify the planet that to simply let local government constrain the radical elements.”

Vader says nothing for a long moment, then finally speaks so lowly Wilhuff barely realizes he’s speaking at all. “That constraint will not restrain us for long.”

Wilhuff considers the dimensions of Vader’s vague threat, then tries to suppress the rush of excitement it produces. To hold the fate of a planet in one’s hands is an intoxicating promise—and yet that’s what he’s been given, as a moff.

“If you want something to crush, look to the moons. It’s where Dooku had his estate.” Wilhuff says, matching Vader’s low tone. “Eriadu will have no such opportunities.”

Vader shakes his head, watching other politicians move forward to make their greetings—or their assurances of loyalty—to Wilhuff. The dance is familiar to Wilhuff, after years as governor, but he is serious about what he says. He cannot uproot all of Seswenna’s patterns simply because of a single promotion, and he needs these people if he is to serve as moff effectively.

Fortunately, he’d planned only a short stop here, meaning that his departure is not surprising when he chooses to make his exit. The shuttle is ready, and his escort is gratifyingly silent, meaning that Wilhuff is allowed his own space to relax after the various interactions. He knows this is not the real test: that will come when he has to enforce Imperial edicts, or make some change. As long as “moff” remains a theoretical, abstract concept, the people will accept it without complaint, but when the time comes, there may be more resistance than they’ve indicated in this meeting.

It may be better to manufacture an edict and enforce it quickly, rather than waiting for something from the Emperor, Wilhuff realizes. Something simple, like a change in HoloNet licenses. He can demonstrate how his rule will be applied to Eriadu and Seswenna equally, without singling out an administration to fight against. Already he has a draft prepared in his head, the short outlines of a proposal (which he can likely confirm himself—a moff needs no committee), and so it is that he doesn’t notice the attention of others as his party exits their transport shuttle. The sun is already setting, casting long shadows, and Wilhuff stops in surprise when Vader moves forward ahead of him to step into the darkness.

“Vader—” Wilhuff is cut off by the sound of blaster fire, red streaks bursting from both sides. They’ve walked into a corridor, leading into a courtyard, and the pockets of shadow on the sides of the corridor suddenly come to life with figures. Vader is still eerily silent, ignoring the blaster fire, and Wilhuff tenses as his two stormtrooper companions barricade him on either side.

“We can’t stay here.” He hisses, moving forward, and the stormtroopers’ attention is divided as they try to return fire. Turning, the stormtrooper on Wilhuff’s right stumbles, catching a blaster bolt in the chest as he falls and fires wildly. Wilhuff crouches, making himself a smaller target, and he reaches forward to claim the gun from the trooper’s hands before glancing to the stormtrooper still standing.

“Move to the door. Building security should be here shortly, and the cover is better.” He nods quickly, not waiting for a response, and he stands in order to fire a few test shots. The recoil is more than he’s accustomed to, but the gun is small enough to handle comfortably. With his back to the other trooper, Wilhuff begins a sideways walk to anticipate further shots.

When a group of figures make their charge, Wilhuff and the trooper manage to hold their ground, Wilhuff bracing himself for the gun’s kick as he faces a series of well-armed humans. Their armor is too uniform, too clean for them to be a street gang, and as Wilhuff manages to land a hit on two of them, he strides forward to study their clothing.

“ _Moff_ Tarkin. A sham.” One figure spits, raising his gun to fire even as the trooper strikes him down with the butt of his blaster. Wilhuff watches in quiet tranquility, hearing movement as Vader does _something_ with the other group of figures behind them.

“You know my name.”

“We aren’t so ignorant, Tarkin, we know your face—” The man inhales sharply as the trooper brings his blaster to bear on him, scowling in defiance.

“No, this is interesting.” Wilhuff raises a hand, belaying the trooper’s shot. “Did the governor tell you? Or someone else, someone uninvolved with politics?”

“We have our own methods. You think your little announcement was so calm, so prosaic.” The man laughs harshly, attempting to rise to his feet. “Seswenna will never bow to another hand. We were free once, and we will be free again.”

“The only freedom you’ll find is here.” Wilhuff says evenly, standing in order to raise his blaster. With a moment of hesitation, the bolt fires, striking the man cleanly in the chest and thrusting him backwards. As Wilhuff watches, considering the figure now lying dead before him, another shot breaks his attention, and he turns to see the trooper edging backwards from another fresh corpse.

“There, ah. Someone was waiting in reserve.” The trooper nods quickly, meeting Wilhuff’s gaze. Wilhuff thinks a moment longer, considering the trooper.

“You’re not a clone, are you.” There is no opportunity for an answer, as Vader returns to Wilhuff’s side with barely a stitch out of place.

“Former Separatists.”

“Not so ‘former’. Their resistance is still significant.” Wilhuff nods, exhaling a held breath. “Are you pleased, Lord Vader? You were right about Seswenna’s rebellious tendencies.”

“’Pleased’ is not the proper word.” Vader glances at the bodies at his feet, doing a mental count. “There may be more.”

“Unlikely. There’s not enough room for more.” Wilhuff shakes his head, feeling his heartbeat suddenly jump as the ramifications of this attack begin to sink in. “Are there monitors here? Security footage, tapes of any kind—”

“The corridor has none. But we can track the visuals from the street.”

“Have your team—” Wilhuff waves a hand vaguely, unsure of the Imperial protocol. “—send it to my aide on the _Executor_. I need to review those tapes before we make them available to local security. These bodies, too, we’ll have to—” Wilhuff suddenly reaches out, dropping his gun atop the cluttered pathway. “Lord Vader.”

“Governor Tarkin.” Vader says nothing, but Wilhuff is grateful for the single sound of his name, reminding him of his place.

“This is not an auspicious introduction for a moff.” Wilhuff finally says, earning a nod from Vader.

“You have no need to concern yourself with the impressions of a few onlookers—”

“A few onlookers, Lord Vader? If security footage gets out, the people of Seswenna will see only what they want to see. It is not customary for local governors to carry weapons, or fire them, even if they are afraid for their lives.”

“Trooper. Clean up these bodies.” Vader nods to the trooper standing by, earning a sharp salute before he turns back to Wilhuff. “We can return to the _Executor_ tonight, the shuttle is agile enough—”

“No. We do not run.” Wilhuff shakes his head, forcing himself to move again to enter the nearby doorway. There is no staff waiting for them, no other beings present as witnesses, and Wilhuff finds himself moving into the overly-lavish dining room before noticing the plates already set out.

Ah. Right. He was meant to eat dinner here, upon their return from the reception.

“Bring in the first course.” He barks, shaking his head to consider the absurdity of the routine. Even as he tries to determine a next step, small droids enter from the kitchen, bearing plates with artistically arranged foodstuffs. Though neither he nor Vader are seated, the plates are set at their places with as much flourish as the droids can muster, before they disappear back into the kitchen to leave the men alone.

“You fear for your life, yet you refuse to leave the planet.” Vader says, bringing them back to their conversation. Wilhuff shakes his head as he moves to the table, pulling out the chair in a partial daze.

“I am not afraid for my life. I have you here, don’t I?” Wilhuff offers a grim smile, facing only Vader’s blank mask in return. “No, these Separatists—if that’s what they are—can do much more by threatening my image.”

“Your image is already changing. You are a moff of the Empire.”

“Yes, and my actions here will define that title for a generation to come. I cannot allow that definition to be one of weakness, or of insecurity.” Distracted, Wilhuff picks up one of the prepared delicacies, chewing it thoughtfully as Vader takes the seat across from him.

“Local security is on the scene. The trooper is wondering what we should tell them.” Vader tilts his head, prompting Wilhuff to smile faintly.

“Let them take the bodies, but no more. Inform them that our own team will perform any necessary investigation.” Wilhuff nods, taking another bite from his plate. “We do have a team that does that, yes?”

“One can be found, if needed.” Vader nods, relaying the information through his comm. “You have less to fear from this attack than you might think.”

Wihuff pauses, watching Vader as the idea processes. Finally, sitting back, Wilhuff gestures across the table. “Please, eat.”

Vader makes no movement. “I have no need.”

“Take off the mask and _eat_ , Vader. You do need to eat.” Wilhuff waits, earning a short nod from the dark figure. “Then do so. I doubt there will be another opportunity later today, and I have no intention of letting you scurry off while I plan our next move. Eat now.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Vader reaches up to undo a latch on his helmet, pulling the mask away to set it to one side. As Wilhuff watches, he sits up in eager anticipation, resisting the urge to gasp as Vader finally removes the mask completely and faces Wilhuff once more.

Wilhuff had avoided any speculation as to Vader’s condition—the mask was decorative, certainly, but seemed to have no meaningful function. The armor, too, was grandiose, but helped to conceal Vader’s true form. Now, without the interference of the mask, Vader’s eyes are sharp and piercing, and dark eyebrows lend a serious weight to his gaze. His hair, though kinked by the helmet, is neatly combed, and Wilhuff finds himself staring as Vader shakes his head once. The darkness of the armor, coming up all the way to Vader’s chin, makes the lightness of his skin stand out even more, and Wilhuff tries to process the sight of this man—a _beautiful_ man, all things considered—in comparison with the expressionless figure escorting him.

Following Wilhuff’s order, Vader reaches out to claim a piece of food, eating it quickly with no discernable reaction. Wilhuff shakes himself back to attention, taking quick bites off his own plate, and it is Vader who speaks again to surprise Wilhuff a second time.

“Your actions today were not out of character for a moff of the Empire. You acted decisively, calmly, rationally—and were not afraid to involve yourself.”

“Yes, Vader, but there are dimensions, personal dimensions—”

“These political games should not bother you any longer.” Vader’s voice grows harsher, unmodulated by the mask. “You are a _moff_. You are the governor’s superior, and the Emperor trusts you to make the necessary decisions for this region. ‘Image’ is the least of your concerns.”

Wilhuff pauses, allowing a silence to build as he takes another bite. “You are not a politician yourself.”

“And _you_ are not—were not—a member of the Imperial military. Your caution is commendable, but there is no reason to fixate on aspects that have no real impact on your duties.”

Wilhuff falls quiet again, forced to admit the validity of Vader’s arguments. “My apologies, Lord Vader. This…title will take some getting used to.”

“There is no need for you to apologize.” Vader shrugs, taking another bite of his food. “You are allowed to take certain liberties. I may be the Emperor’s representative, but you are also his agent. He appointed you, personally. And, for what it’s worth, your work so far has demonstrated that he made the right decision.”

Wilhuff blinks in surprise, feeling the touch of proud satisfaction in his chest. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, Lord Vader. You’ve been forced to accompany me on these pointless encounters—”

“They are not pointless. I may not appreciate the intricacies of politics, but you and the Emperor clearly see the value in them. And perhaps there is some value in your work here.”

Slowly, Wilhuff allows himself a small smile, considering Vader carefully as the other man continues to eat. Wilhuff considers the work ahead, thinking about the ramifications of the events tonight, and nods to himself. Yes, there is some work to be done in informing everyone of the events here. It may come as a surprise, to those who learn the real story, to know that the new Moff Tarkin personally killed one of his attackers. But the Empire needs to be strong. And Wilhuff can only act as an extension of that strength.

And with Vader behind him, perhaps his transition into military matters will not be so difficult.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that someone did fanart? It's here! (https://walkskies.tumblr.com/post/172049439109/quick-tarkin-get-out-before-he-starts) LOOK AT IT. He's beauty, he's grace, he's got an actual human face.

The events on Seswenna have had echoes through most of the sector. WIlhuff is surprised to find that his family has been busy, composing responses of their own, and his aide has been kept busy fielding the communications proposing alterations to his Holonet restrictions. Wilhuff finds an incredible excitement in coordinating the needs of both the local governments and Vader’s military expeditions, especially as the garrison on Seswenna has pursued the issue of local insurrection. Governor Petrell has wisely kept out of the way as Vader and Tarkin have enacted their security measures, and Vader has been tracking down the systems of resistance as they reveal themselves.

There is a certain pleasure in being stationed on a Venerator, Wilhuff finds. He does miss the convenience of being on-planet, but the _Executor_ is large enough to give him enough space to move freely. His aide, Cass, is an expert at navigating the ship, and Wilhuff finds that the organization of squadrons and garrisons is not so different from administrating an Outlands contingent. The new troopers are young, somewhat unprepared for the reality of military life, and most often simply watching and listening to their conversations in the canteen is educational enough. The officers and lieutenants are more likely to approach him directly, but even they find his title intimidating, and he is happy to remain in his quarters with Cass to review their progress.

Though they’ve moved from Seswenna, Wilhuff hasn’t yet formed an itinerary for Eriadu, and he is unsure of what he might _do_. Will they really expect another speech? He may need to find the senator, after the man’s abrupt dismissal from Coruscant, but surely there is nothing so urgent as to require his presence on the planet. Instead, the local shipping leaders have been observant enough to send a orbital ship of their own, matching the _Executor_ ’s orbit to initiate communication. A small group of business magnates, self-righteous in their own wealth and importance, have managed to earn an audience with Wilhuff, and have shuttled over to take up their positions in the _Executor_ ’s meeting room.

Wilhuff knows most of these men already from their business on Eriadu, and most of them try to use their previous influence to ensure that they will retain pride of place. Wilhuff knows most of these men already, from their business on Eriadu, and most of them try to use their previous influence to ensure that they will retain pride of place. Though Wilhuff has never discussed this directly with the Emperor, he finds their smug attempts at comradery distasteful, and he makes no promises. Though they may have been useful for Eriadu in the past, their continued loyalty is what the Empire needs.

As the meeting progresses, some of the older men begin to realize Wilhuff’s lack of commitment and begin to make threats. The Hydian Way is not so important, they try to claim. Smugglers are happy to use the unmarked routes, after all. If the Empire needs their shipping companies, then they need to be assured that the Empire will pay competitively.

Wilhuff keeps his own counsel and remains silent, watching them degrade into pointless competition. Their frothy-mouthed, impassioned arguments make no difference here. Wilhuff can feel the power of the Venerator beneath him, emphasizing his role in this interaction, and when the other men fail to come to a useful conclusion, Wilhuff simply stands and leaves the room. Cass, his semi-permanent shadow, follows close behind, but neither of them say anything until they reach the privacy of Wilhuff’s quarters.

“They will come around.” Wilhuff promises, accepting a datapad from Cass to reread the minutes of their meeting. Cass, surprisingly, has little to add, and Wilhuff looks up to study him before realizing. “You haven’t had to sit in on a meeting like this before, have you. The Republic had favorable arrangements with its suppliers.”

“The issues of supply never interfered with normal military duties.” Cass shrugs, reading the datapad over Wilhuff’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize they’d be so…obstinate.”

“As I said, time is on our side here. The Hydian Way is important, yes. The Rimma Trade Route, even more so. But the shipping companies _need_ the Empire if they are to make their way to the planets, and if they plan on resisting pirates. The Outlands can only do so much.” Besides which, if Wilhuff has his way, the Outlands will be incorporated into the Empire in the end. “We can’t let them form their own security forces, but a little bit of time will hardly hurt them.” Wilhuff nods, setting the datapad aside, and as a ping chimes through the room, Cass leaves to determine the source of the noise.

Yes, these men may have known Wilhuff as Governor Tarkin. They may have made their deals, formed their alliances, created their little monopolies. But Wilhuff is no longer a governor of a single planet—he has dominion of this entire sector. If these mercenary men, these business magnates concerned with input and output and tariffs, want to try and threaten him, he’d be impressed to see them try. He has seen worse than a few angry elders in his line of work.

“Governor Tarkin, there’s—you have a visitor.” Cass has reappeared, glancing behind him at the figure of a young man standing patiently in the doorway. Wilhuff pauses, studying his visitor, then looks back to Cass.

“Let him in.” Wilhuff gestures him forward, taking the datapad and slipping it into his desk. Though these are his personal quarters, there is more than enough room for him to have an office area, and Wilhuff takes his seat at his desk as the other man steps forward.

“Moff Tarkin. I’m grateful for your time.” The younger man nods deeply, his non-Imperial uniform at odds with the grays of the room. Cass makes no movement, paralyzed beside the door, and Wilhuff waves him off.

“I’ll be fine here, Captain. Confirm Vader’s plans with the bridge and make sure I haven’t had any new communiques.” Cass bows gratefully, escaping from the room, and Wilhuff returns his attention to his visitor to try and gauge the nature of this meeting. It isn’t unusual for businessmen to seek out personal meetings like this—it’s somewhat abrupt, given the recent meeting, but Wilhuff has no reason to question this arrival. Yet the man before him is young, incredibly young, not one of the leaders from the meeting earlier. As Wilhuff studies him, the man offers a smile, his fair hair catching the light as he moves.

“I’m Gavin Hiteryn. You met with my father, earlier. I’m sorry if he was a bit…zealous.” The man nods again, watching as Wilhuff sits up.

“That’s right. Kaizan Hiteryn, the—” Wilhuff pauses, shrugging. “He has a right to claim primacy in this sector. Your company has served Seswenna for decades.”

“That’s no reason to assume things will be the same now.” Gavin moves forward, placing a hand on the table. “My father doesn’t exactly know I’m here. We…disagree on certain things. But the galaxy is changing, and I want to ensure that Hiteryn shipping keeps pace.”

“A noble goal.” Wilhuff nods, watching as Gavin’s hands spread against the polished steel. “And?”

Gavin tilts his head, his bright eyes striking Wilhuff with an odd intensity. “This conversation is off the record, of course, Governor Tarkin.”

“Of course.” Wilhuff reaches up slowly, finding his commlink, and unclips it from his collar. With his thumb, he changes the settings, placing it on the table to watch Gavin smile again.

“I think there is great potential for our coordination, Governor Tarkin.” Gavin shrugs becomingly, leaning forward. “I see a future for Hiteryn’s work around this sector, far and beyond our current arrangement.”

“And what gives you that impression?” Wilhuff tries to keep his voice firm, but Gavin’s smile is dangerously disarming; as Gavin moves around the desk, Wilhuff lets the scowl fade from his expression, looking up as Gavin rests his hip against the side of the desk.

“Why, Governor, I know you to be a reasonable man. Hiteryn happens to be the most efficient company. _Anything_ you need, we provide, faster than the others. Our ships are the most current, outfitted with their own defenses. We need no planetary support, merely your permission.”

“There’s several companies angling for my permission, Hiteryn.”

“Gavin. Please. Call me Gavin.” The other man leans close, forcing Wilhuff to look up at him. “’Mister Hiteryn’ is my father.”

“You truly think you can outperform the others.” Wilhuff asks, reaching up to grasp Gavin’s hand as the other man reaches forward.

“Oh, Governor, if it’s a question of _performance_ , I assure you—we are happy to fulfill any requirements.”

“Off the record, it seems.” Wilhuff finally recognizes what’s happening here—Gavin is leaning over him, ducking his head to whisper against Wilhuff’s ear. The pull of attraction is _very_ real, and a tiny voice in Wilhuff’s head asks if Gavin knew this before coming in. But now Gavin is pushing closer, moving around Wilhuff’s seat to place his hands on Wilhuff’s shoulders.

“Off the record? Governor Tarkin, you control this sector. We will do whatever it takes to retain our priority here.”

“You truly think Seswenna and Eriadu are so important? Why not let your customers arrange this, without my interference?”

Gavin laughs, light and airy. “Oh, Tarkin, we would hardly do anything without the Empire’s approval. On the record.”

“And off the record?”

“Well, our ships may have their defenses, but in the mess of trade routes…” Gavin trails off, pressing his thumbs against the muscles of Wilhuff’s neck. Despite himself, Wilhuff thrills at the touch, relaxing as Gavin continues. “Many things can happen. We’ve already made the preparations to control the routes. It would be… _simpler_ if we had your approval. Our ships are already aligned with Imperial codes, programmed to Imperial specifications.”

“Hmm. You’ve checked, then.” Wilhuff closes his eyes, letting Gavin press deeper into the muscles. “You have Imperial codes you’ve already used?”

“Our early runs have met with success. How do you think I found your quarters so quickly? These ships, the new TIE fighters, the changes in the HoloNet—Hiteryn has seen these all from the inside. None of our competitors have the first clue about your networks.”

Wilhuff nods, tilting his head back. “And your father?”

“My father doesn’t know the first thing about Imperial protocol. Your planned schedules. Your technical details.” Gavin leans close, speaking against Wilhuff’s ear. “Forget him. If you confirm our appointment, Hiteryn can provide more than you could possible anticipate.”

Wilhuff grins, opening his eyes again to find Gavin watching him closely. “You promise much.”

“I wouldn’t promise it if I couldn’t fulfill that promise.” Gavin nods, gripping Wilhuff’s shoulders, and Wilhuff sits up to escape Gavin’s grip.

“I regret that I don’t have time to discuss your…offer in more detail.” Standing, Wilhuff grabs at Gavin’s hands, sensing the soft skin beneath his fingers as he nods. “I have work to do, now—you know the kind. The pressure of local government can be _such_ a chore. But don’t be too quick to leave the system.”

Gavin smiles widely, his hands clasping Wilhuff’s. “Of course not. I look forward to further ‘meetings’, Moff Tarkin.”

“As do I.” Wilhuff finally releases Gavin to let the other man walk back to the door. Gavin, for his part, pauses once to glance back, nodding to Wilhuff, then disappears back into the hallway to leave Wilhuff alone once more. Wilhuff stands in the center of his office, considering the ramifications of Gavin’s approach, and thinks back to the meeting only an hour or so ago. He hopes that not every company attempts this approach—otherwise his roster will become much too crowded. Still, there is something about Gavin’s approach, the details of his argument, that prompts Wilhuff’s thinking. As a ping chimes again, Wilhuff reaches for his commlink, commanding the door to open again and beckoning Cass toward him.

There is much to prepare, if Gavin is serious about his promises.

==

The next time Wilhuff sees Gavin and the other business magnates, they are standing in the shuttle hangar bay, milling about like so many lost schoolchildren. Wilhuff has chosen not to come alone this time, and as he steps from the lift, Darth Vader dogs his heels with a solid, heavy step. No longer does Wilhuff feel the trepidation of having Vader so near. Now they act in unison, and as Wilhuff catches the attention of the gathered businessmen, he is gratified to see the flicker of fear in their eyes.

“Gentlemen.” Wilhuff offers a deep nod, but nothing more, watching them orient themselves towards them. “You’ve been productive during your time in orbit. No less than five separate reports on the stability of trade routes crossed my desk since our meeting yesterday. I’ll have to learn how you do it.”

A nervous chuckle ripples through the group, and Wilhuff follows their glances as stormtroopers gather around them. Stepping forward, Wilhuff glories in the drama of this small moment, the attention of the businessmen as he moves among them.

“However, some of you chose to employ less…conventional methods of persuasion. I am a planetary governor, gentlemen, not some mid-level Coruscanti bureaucrat who can be bought with a vague threat or credit chip.” Wilhuff looks to each man in turn, finding Gavin Hiteryn hiding at the back of the group. The younger man is pale, but he offers a confident smile, attempting to draw Wilhuff into a conspiratorial nod. Wilhuff makes no move, no acknowledgement of Gavin’s presence, and instead turns to face Vader. “A lesser man would have given in to such menial temptations. Unfortunately for you, I am not such a man.”

“Governor Tarkin, the offering of monetary compensation is a natural part of political proceedings, it’s been traditional for years—” A taller man pauses as Wilhuff glances at him, caught mid-sentence as he withers under Wilhuff’s glare.

“These minor diversions aren’t important. What is important is that one of you has access to systems you shouldn’t. Information is power, gentlemen, and the wrong information in the wrong hands is more dangerous than this entire ship.” Wilhuff nods again, watching the small movements as Vader begins to circle the group. “Access codes, Imperial databases. Technical readouts. For our allies, these are harmless pieces of data, random flotsam in the stream of information. But the Empire is not the Republic; it is no longer content to simply open the floodgates and let the barbarians pick amongst its refuse. If you have not been _given_ an Imperial access code, it is because you are not _meant_ to have an Imperial access code. Do I make myself clear?” There is a moment of quiet confusion among the gathered men, and Wilhuff curls his lip in a derisive sneer.

“Even this might have been forgiven, had you not attempted to smooth over your indiscretion with all the dignity of a student caught with their hands up another student’s blouse. If you cannot be _effective_ , then at the very least _pretend_ you know what you’re doing.”

At this, a sharp gasp is audible from the back of the group, and Wilhuff turns to see Gavin Hiteryn lunging forward just as Darth Vader holds him back. The contrast couldn’t be more stark: Gavin, in his light hair and pale skin, seems almost sickly as Vader, huge and dark, holds him in place. Wilhuff watches, with more than a touch of regret, as Gavin’s expressive eyes progress through a chorus of emotions, finally settling on aggrieved as he tries to pout prettily.

“I don’t see what this is about, Moff Tarkin.”

“No, you wouldn’t. All that information, and your father failed to train you in basic information security.” Wilhuff tuts, watching the elder Hiteryn start in surprise. “Vader’s men have already confirmed what I suspected in our discussion yesterday: you have access codes to Imperial data sheets that you shouldn’t have. You’ve been testing your ships against those parameters.”

“A lucky guess isn’t the same as—”

“You do not _guess_ , Gavin Hiteryn. You knew your ships would surpass the others, not merely because of your updated ‘defensive’ systems, but because you knew the routes the Empire would prefer. You merely needed me to confirm the patterns being used. A bold attempt, certainly. But without finesse.”

Gavin’s exasperation turns to anger, and he pulls against Vader’s grip. “I wasn’t told it was confidential, I didn’t know—”

“ _This_ is why we have Imperial protocol. Security measures are in place to protect us: the moment you break that security, you threaten us all.” Wilhuff straightens, clicking his heels in the picture of Imperial precision. “Lord Vader, I leave young Hiteryn in your capable hands. Perhaps, with time, we can convince him of the need for Imperial protocol. Gentlemen, this meeting—this entire encounter—is _over_.”

“Moff Tarkin, please!” The elder Hiteryn rushes forward, pushing past the other men as they back away. “Gavin—he doesn’t understand the intricacies of our business, the lengths we go to. He’s here to learn, he’s still just learning. You can’t imprison him just because of a bad transmission!”

“Gavin made it quite clear to me that his father knew nothing of what he was doing.” Wilhuff responds, facing the father to avoid the pleading look of the son. “With that information, I cannot be sure that you _know_ of your son’s actions, or their ramifications. Gavin is capable of facing the consequences of his actions perfectly well on his own.”

“Moff Tarkin, I didn’t mean—” Gavin speaks now, wisely keeping still as Vader holds his arms. “If it was something I said, something I did—I thought you _wanted_ me to visit, the file indicated—”

“You get too much of your information from files, Mister Hiteryn.” Wilhuff watches as a stormtrooper approaches, moving beside Vader to activate a pair of restraining links. “I presume the _Executor_ has a capable detention level?”

“More than capable.” Vader transfers their prisoner to the waiting trooper escort, letting them restrain the man before nodding to Wilhuff. Gavin’s father still stands, lost among the troopers, as Wilhuff turns back to return to the lift, and Wilhuff hesitates before moving past him. There is nothing more he can do for the man, and he is not in the custom of offering comfort. Instead, it is Vader who accompanies Wilhuff into the lift, and the doors close to shut them off from the rest of the ship in a moment of blessed silence.

“The young Hiteryn will not remain in our custody for long.” Wilhuff predicts, feeling a wave of fatigue rush over him. “His father has the money, and the influence, to wrangle his freedom. We should be prepared.”

“There is nothing to prepare. His arrest was a show of force. Quietly releasing him to his father in a month or so should pose no problems.” Vader nods, prompting Wilhuff to look at him in interest.

“A show of force. You’re starting to appreciate the game we play.”

“Easier to arrest a single pretentious boy now, than to track down the entire web of leaks, data breaches, and confidentiality reports in a year’s time.” Vader attempts to brush off the statement with a shrug, but Wilhuff can only shake his head in amazed incredulity.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that commlink recording. I needed to be sure that he’d referenced the data I thought he had, and he…” Wilhuff finds himself clearing his throat, unsure of why he’s avoiding this topic. “He probably had a personnel file that referenced my previous partners. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to use that kind of influence with me.” Rarely had it been so close to succeeding, too. Wilhuff shakes off the sensation, focusing again on the doors of the lift, and releases the tension from his shoulders as he thinks.

“The Empire would hardly seek to prevent you from pursuing your own diversions, Governor Tarkin.” Vader breaks in, low and soft. “If anything, your vigilance in this instance only makes it clear that you are more suited than others to be in a position of such authority.”

Wilhuff blinks, unsure of what Vader means, but accepts the pseudo-compliment with a nod. “In my years as governor, I haven’t found anyone compelling enough to dedicate myself to them. Now that my schedule is twice as busy, I’m sure any chance of ‘diversions’ I might have had are now lost.”

“Such a pessimistic outlook, Governor.”

“I prefer the adjective ‘realistic’.” Wilhuff clarifies, clenching his hands behind his back. “As a military man yourself, you must recognize that duty comes before anything.”

“It might surprise you to know just what I recognize.” Vader says quietly, and Wilhuff is surprised to hear a touch of humor in the tone.

“So you would disagree?”

“You take things to a dangerous extreme, Governor Tarkin. A military may function on order, on reliability, on strength, yes. But even generals are permitted to take leave. In fact, a general who encourages diversions outside the strict guidelines of ‘war’ often has the mental elasticity to overcome obstacles more quickly. The military too often seeks to make things horizontal, flattened. Adding dimension is useful for both the general and the foot soldier.”

Wilhuff turns partially to watch Vader, amazed by the speech. “You’re arguing _for_ the development of relationships. Of friendships, of romances, encouraged by high command.”

“Nothing so drastic. But the Emperor certainly is aware of the natural tendencies of humans and sees no reason to restrain them excessively. You should see no barriers to pursuing your own…entertainment.” Vader nods once, straightening his shoulders, and Wilhuff thinks of nothing to say in response as the lift doors open and they exit once more.

Gavin had been a traitor to the Empire, perhaps more a fool than a malicious actor, but clearly motivated by self-interest rather than genuine competition. Part of Wilhuff _had_ wanted Gavin, but the boy is merely that: a boy, already whispering sweet words while spinning out threads of treachery. Instead, Wilhuff finds himself thinking of Vader, the man who’d restrained Gavin without any more effort than holding back a rowdy dog. Vader knows what it is to live, how to appreciate true loyalty, how to lead men and earn their trust. He has developed his strength in battle and emerged the victor.

Wilhuff will have to give this more thought. Sometime later, sometime when he _isn’t_ standing on the bridge of Vader’s ship. When he can avoid the temptation to merely turn to his right and see Vader in his full glory, already checking on reports from around the ship as he focuses on his work as leader of this ship.

Wilhuff has _much_ to think about.


	6. The Pawn

Their proximity to Eriadu has made it easy for Wilhuff to stay updated on developments on the planet. He still hasn’t made plans to visit, but when he reaches out to the senator (already he thinks of him as the ‘former senator’), Senator Idreet is submissive and willing to cooperative. Wilhuff is shocked to see how the years have treated him: Idreet is old now, wizened by activity, and Wilhuff suspects his early retirement will hardly be an imposition. However, Wilhuff cannot release him from his duties just yet. The senator is persuaded to participate in a hologram call, and Wilhuff only spends a few minutes on memories of earlier times before asking the more pertinent questions.

The bills and petitions of Idreet’s administration are unimportant; Wilhuff probes instead the financial needs of Eriadu, the alliances made over the most recent Senate rotations, and the business deals cut with the banking and merchant sectors of the Senate dealings. When he passes the information along to Captain Cass, he can see the shock on the man’s face, but to his credit Cass says nothing and files, organizes, and prioritizes the information with impeccable efficiency.

The Outlands Forces also come to visit Wilhuff on his—well, on Vader’s—Venerator, and though the prestige of his title is awe-inspiring, most of the administrators are on first-name terms with Wilhuff already. Most of them were _there_ when he entered the academy, working his way through the courses and mastering the various tracks. They are hesitant at first to accept Imperial oversight, but Wilhuff points out how most of their students already transfer out into Imperial positions anyway—and the Empire can promise to keep its hands out of internal Outlands affairs. Even better, the Outlands are more than willing to take on security duties in the sector, meaning that Wilhuff’s concerns with the shipping companies are relieved somewhat as the two branches begin to correspond.

Vader quietly updates Wilhuff of their activities on Seswenna, even as Wilhuff focuses on enforcing his HoloNet restrictions. Seswenna is shaken as former Separatists, or incipient resistance leaders, are uncovered across the moons, and Wilhuff makes another speech across the HoloNet to clarify the Empire’s activities and justify military action. In less public settings, he reassures the mayors and Governor Petrell that this turmoil will quickly pass, and that cooperation with Vader is easier than the alternative.

On rare occasions, in true privacy, Wilhuff is blessed with the affirmative, confident assurances of Vader himself.

He is fortunate to have that assurance when a lieutenant comes to him with an unusual report, torn between the attention of Wilhuff and Vader in the hall outside the bridge. Vader makes no move, says nothing, to detract from Wilhuff’s authority, but the lieutenant takes a few moments before he can present himself appropriately.

“There’s been an incident. Garrison Nine. One of the troopers failed to show up for drill, and his commander—he was found dead in his quarters. A single blaster bolt to the skull.”

“I see.” Wilhuff nods, considering the dimensions of the ship. “I assume we’ve already been put on alert. If there’s a killer on the loose—”

“There isn’t, sir.” The lieutenant says softly, grasping his datapad with both hands. “Wound was determined to be self-inflicted.”

“Oh.” Wilhuff blinks once, releasing his tension. “Lord Vader. Your thoughts?”

“Forward the incident report to Governor Tarkin and myself.” Vader informs the lieutenant, earning a salute before dismissing him to leave Wilhuff and Vader alone. “With the Emperor’s new recruitment plan, this was always a possibility. Clone troopers were unlikely to fall victim to the stress and trauma of our work; our new recruits may not have the same mental stability.”

“Do we have numbers? Figures? Any sort of statistical indication of causes?” Wilhuff has vague memories of social statistics reports, information packets that had crossed his desk at one point or another. He doubts the reports of a civilian population would help any examination of a military garrison, however.

“It’s too early to tell. Most Venerators still have clones in some capacity.” Vader shakes his head once, which is enough to inform Wilhuff of the concentration being focused behind the mask. “The process is slow. And yet we move too fast to predict the full outcome.”

“Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. There’s no guarantee that this trooper was…” Wilhuff lacks the words, even in innuendo, to properly present the situation. “He may have been influenced by other factors. His family, his friends from home. They are allowed communication, yes?”

Vader nods, propping his hands on his hips. “His file will be attached to the incident report. We can check his external contacts.”

“It’s no guarantee. Screenings aren’t always perfect; he may truly have simply found the pressure of the garrison too great.” Wilhuff nods, stretching out his hands to shift the tension in his shoulders. “If you plan on going to the garrison yourself, I’d like to accompany you. Though I have yet to lead a garrison, the knowledge is important.”

With a moment of hesitation, Vader looks to Wilhuff. “It may not be that informative.”

“I want to come.” Wilhuff confirms. “The men barely know me. Your bridge staff and pilots may recognize me, but you remain the first point of contact for your troopers. I don’t seek to displace you—but I need to understand.”

Vader turns partially, beckoning to Wilhuff to have him walk alongside. Wilhuff isn’t sure when he started walking _next_ to Vader instead of _behind_ Vader, but he appreciates the chance to earn the Dark Lord’s attention. “The trappings of our military—they have their purpose. The Emperor has given me my armor, my helmet, for his own reasons. Like the troopers, it establishes a continuity among our presentation, and allows us to remain implacable in the face of overwhelming circumstances. As we reduce our number of clone troopers, our uniforms give us the consistency we need.”

Wilhuff exhales quickly, amused by Vader’s explanation. “I know this. It’s why your Venerator has been evolving over the past year, and why my uniform was designed on Coruscant. The Empire prioritizes consistency and clarity. It’s what I admire about Palpatine.”

Vader starts in surprise, but does not break stride. “The Emperor.”

“Yes. Emperor Palpatine.” With a shrug, Wilhuff lets Vader lead them into the lift, sending a ping along to Captain Cass as they travel. With his usual quick efficiency, Cass appears only moments after they step off the lift, handing Wilhuff a datapad before falling into step behind the two commanders.

“He was an Outer Rim cadet.” Wilhuff says with surprise, checking the man’s scores. “A good one, too. No aptitude for flying, but his tactical knowledge was excellent.”

“Check his personnel notes, too.” Vader nods. “If he was from the Outer Rim, he may have notes that don’t reflect test scores.”

Vader is right: Wilhuff finds a number of short notes, presumably from the instructors at the cadet’s academy, and he notes with interest how many names appear in the references. The man—cadet, ensign, whatever—was evidently well connected.

“Did you know him?” Wilhuff asks as they enter the barracks level, following the hallway toward the garrison quarters. Vader does not answer immediately, but pauses as they come to the door.

“I knew of him. As you said: promising. Nothing notable. Another year and he would have been eligible for promotion.”

“A year? That’s nothing, in a military career.”

“The Empire needs qualified humans.” Vader says shortly, keying open the barracks door to step inside. Though the rooms easily hold ten sleepers, it has been cleared given the recent trauma, and Wilhuff watches as Vader moves through the room.

It seems odd, that the captain of this ship—Palpatine’s primary commander, the leader of the Empire’s military might—should be investigating this himself, but Wilhuff knows the value of doing the work personally. He cannot trust anyone else to report effectively: he needs to know directly from the source.

“He had a family.” Wilhuff prompts, changing the search function of his datapad. Instead of scanning the trooper’s personal file, he reverses the parameters, using the terms in the notes and records to scan the Imperial databases. “I mean, that’s evident, but his name—he has connections. High connections. Important connections.”

Vader looks up, and Wilhuff swears there’s a dumb look of confusion on that mask of his. “What?”

“He’s an Outer Rim cadet, you said. The power structures work differently out here. Family names _mean_ something.” Wilhuff taps his datapad once. “I _know_ the Miellets, and the Paratheus. Looks like our boy was all set to step into a business chair, if he wanted it.”

Vader stands straight, glancing at the flat space where the trooper had once slept. “A businessman.”

“Which begs the question, I suppose.”

“Which question?”

“Why in the name of the Five Siblings he enlisted, of course!” Wilhuff looks up again, repressing a smile at Vader’s slow processing. Things truly were different for Core residents. “You think he _wanted_ to be here when he could have stayed at home, partying with his father’s mistresses and waiting to inherit the business?”

Vader recoils slightly, one hand tightening. “This was a _game_ to him?”

“I didn’t say that. No, there’s more going on here, more than a mere flyboy losing faith.” Wilhuff looks around him at the barracks, nodding slowly. “We may not need to reconsider our standard processing procedures. But this issue is not finished. We still have work to do.”

===

Outer Rim they may be, but Eriadu’s connections to the Core are just as strong as ever. Wilhuff is pleased as his access code grants him entry to a number of databases, and he sees Palpatine’s hand in the consolidation and organization of information.

 _Information is power_.

Usually he’d have Captain Cass assist him with something like this, but Wilhuff can feel the need for personal attention. Vader has claimed the trooper’s personal effects, reviewing them himself, but Wilhuff can do his own work in tracing the connections between the families out here. Some of it is second nature: working as governor, he’d pandered to most of these people at least once, hosted them at a gala or event.

The troopers had held a service, of course. Though Wilhuff had prevented Vader from going— _there is nothing to learn,_ he’d argued _, and you’ll only draw their attention_ —they’d reviewed the proceedings from the available security footage, watching and listening to the troopers discuss their former comrade.

For Wilhuff, the experience was enlightening. He’d forgotten the ties of a military group, the kind of reliance one learned to place on their neighbor. There was true brotherhood here, a real solidity, and yet in the memorial, it was the commander of the garrison who did the most talking. Oh, the dead man had been friendly enough. No one had any complaints about him. But none of the other troopers were especially close to the fallen man, either, no one had a kind memory or a funny quirk to recall. He had been quiet. Reserved. Granted, for a man in his unstable position—in hindsight—such reservation was understandable. But no one had anything distinctive to reference about him.

Fortunately, Wilhuff found that Vader was sensitive to the nuances here. He might not have been a politician, but he was certainly attuned to the behaviors of men and beings, sensing the things left unsaid. This trooper had been keeping secrets, either because of his background or in spite of it, and they are now rummaging through his effects to try and determine what those secrets looked like.

The man had been assigned to the _Executor_. Nothing surprising in that. Vader had certainly harbored no suspicions about it. Yet the man—still a boy, then—would have only gotten into the Academy shortly before recruitment started for the trooper garrisons, and his courses were clearly fast-tracked. He’d handled it well, scored excellently, but those were mere formality. Someone had _known_ he’d do well on those tests. Someone had pushed him through the academy.

Someone had been _arranging_ things.

Wilhuff admits to a touch of hypocrisy in this: now that he knows Captain Cass, he would not see anything amiss about recommending the man for a promotion. (Once Wilhuff is finished with this project, he’ll likely fill out the paperwork anyway. No need to delay. It looks better to be accompanied by a lieutenant, even a rear- or second lieutenant.) The use of influence and pressure, the subtle movements of “favors” and “personality”, these are invisible in the computer system. The droid brains of the record-keepers only note the dates and names, nothing more. But Wilhuff can _feel_ the intent lurking here, hovering behind this man’s death. They may not have wanted him to die, but the events that led to his suicide were far more dramatic than a young man being under too much pressure. Someone had expected him to _do_ something, to _be_ something, and he….wasn’t.

“What did you _want.”_ Wilhuff mutters to himself, gripping the edges of his desk as he stares down at the readouts. If he wanted, he could pull up the holographic images of these various scions of industry, the shipbuilder union leader on Corellia, the smiling face of the public relations officer at Corulag, the husband and wife team who pioneered the security measures now popular on Coruscant. These are Core families, well connected. Powerful. _Rich_.

Balling a hand into a fist, Wilhuff slams it against his desk to watch the image flicker, the computer shutting down to avoid any further battering. Fortunately, there is nothing on his desk for him to throw, and so Wilhuff moves to pace along the back wall of his office, hunching his shoulders as the door to his quarters opens.

“Governor.”

“Captain.” Wilhuff turns quickly, aware of his tension. “Come in.”

Cass does so, stepping towards the desk to find it inactive. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Wrong? _Wrong?_ There shouldn’t be, Captain, but there is. There is something… _wrong_.”

Cass blinks once, adopting a small smile. “Is it confidential, sir?”

“Ah. Not. Not precisely.” Wilhuff shakes his head, moving back into his pacing. “It is a bit tedious, though.”

“If it’s worth your attention, I’m sure it can’t be so bad.” Cass muses, touching the edge of the desk. Wilhuff looks up, considering him, then sighs harshly.

“Cass, if you’re upset about being left out of my investigation—“

“Oh, no, sir. It isn’t that.” Wilhuff is surprised to hear how forcefully Cass can insist without raising his voice, and makes another mental note about the man. “But it isn’t like you to pace.”

Wilhuff looks down at his feet, forcing himself to stop. “It isn’t unlike me either. I have paced before.”

“Sir, this is a single event. From what I know.” Cass shrugs, watching Wilhuff closely. “If it’s a question of evidence—if you have a suspicion, without evidence, there are ways to deal with that. The _Executor_ herself is not a complete roster, but Lord Vader could certainly be of help. Your codes, too, your mere name could open many doors.”

Wilhuff considers Cass for a moment, allowing himself a quick smile before sobering again. “Cass, I am familiar with the methods for ‘adjusting’ information. Those might be useful for someone in a lower position than myself, but I’m confident the title of ‘moff’ would allow me to prosecute as I like. This is still a military operation.”

“It will be a military operation.” Cass says. “For as long as the Empire needs us.”

“Yes.” Wilhuff sighs, clenching a hand into a fist. “You’re from the Outer Rim too. Seswenna.”

“The sector, not the planet.” Cass clarifies. “Yes, sir.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Core interests are colluding? That organizations, _groups_ with unknown intent, maintain a regular unmonitored correspondence? That their money and power and _fame_ permits them to reach further than even I can reach?”

“That’s the way it has been for generations, Governor.” Cass says quietly, facing Wilhuff evenly. “I was lucky to make it on board this ship. I pride myself on my scores—but I know I would never have made it through the Core academies. They’re…different. From us, I mean.”

“That’s the way it has been. Not the way it has to be.” Wilhuff is unsure why his voice holds so much venom, his words sharp and scathing. “The Empire cannot afford to hand out privileges. Especially not to the very same groups that have proved so unfaithful in the past.”

“But sir, if there’s no real conspiracy—if there’s _nothing_ —then what can we do?”

“There is _something_.” Wilhuff insists, his conviction a physical presence in his throat, threatening to choke him. “We just need to find it.”

Cass is quiet, looking at his hands as he traces the edge of the desk. “Have you spoken to Lord Vader about this?”

“He’s working on the investigation with me. It’s—“

“No, about _this_. Your suspicions. The larger connections, the…what you’ve seen.” Cass nods, tapping a finger on the polished steel. “Do you know what he did, in the Clone Wars? When he first joined our—well, the Emperor?”

Wilhuff shakes his head, moving back to the desk to face Cass across it. “No. Most of his information is inaccessible, even to me. Is there something important?”

“When the war was almost over—we didn’t really _know_ it was almost over, since the fighting was still going on, but—Emperor Palpatine learned the location of a Separatist meeting. Dooku was already dead, Grevious just behind him, but there were still the minor leaders. Palpatine sent Vader, covertly, to find the meeting location and…end the war.”

Wilhuff waits, expecting more information. “He found the leaders?”

“He destroyed them. Single-handedly. There’s barely any record, just a few snips of filmreel, but he confirmed the deaths of a dozen politicians and emissaries in just a few hours.” Cass takes a deep breath, shivering. “Don’t…tell him I told you this. Most of us in the service knew because of the initial information burst, but Pa—the Emperor closed that pretty quickly. The Separatists were finished. The Jedi were gone.”

“And the Empire was born.” Wilhuff nods, straightening. “Very good. _Very_ good. Thank you, Cass. That was informative.”

Cass offers a smile, matching Wilhuff’s posture to offer a salute. “I’m here to help, Governor Tarkin.”

Wilhuff moves past him, reaching up to clap a hand against Cass’s shoulder, then moves forward to leave the office. Cass follows to leave the room empty, but as they emerge into the hallway, Wilhuff nods to him.

“I’m sorry. But I need you to handle my other communications for a little while longer.”

“It’s not an imposition.” Cass nods back, picture perfect in his uniform. Wilhuff turns, leaving Cass to walk in the opposite direction, and Wilhuff makes his way through the administrative/commander’s barracks to find the level with Vader’s quarters.

Wilhuff assumes that, like Wilhuff himself, Vader has quarters that double as an office/reception area, and Wilhuff knocks perfunctorily before stepping inside. His admission is easy enough, but as he walks in, he finds himself stopping short in surprise.

Most Imperial rooms—at least that Wilhuff has seen—are abused by too much light, the harshness of white blinding anyone unprepared for it. This room, or series of rooms, are nearly in complete shadow, the harsh lines of seats or doorways visible as shadowy grays. Highlighted by spots of light, Vader sits on a large seat, cross-legged while a series of objects sits on the floor in front of him. Wilhuff is equally surprised as Vader stands suddenly, already clenching a hand as his other comes up to stabilize his mask.

“What are you doing.”

“Lord Vader—” Wilhuff hesitates, catching his breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

Vader holds up a hand, exhaling slowly. “No. You are my co-commander. I should be available at any time.”

“You are my ‘security escort’.” Wilhuff cannot help commenting wryly, folding his arms. “Technically, I command.”

Vader says nothing for a long moment, finally reaching up with both hands to remove his mask again. As before, Wilhuff is struck by the humanity of the man—the deep flush of his skin, the proud nose and solid jaw. As Vader offers a light smile, Wilhuff feels something shift in his perception, prompting him to smile back.

“You know, Moff Tarkin, a month ago I would not have been so amenable to your games.”

“I do not play ‘games’, Lord Vader. I respect your time too much for that.” Wilhuff bows his head shortly, moving forward to study the other man’s arrangements. As established, Vader had taken the personal belongings of the dead trooper for his own evaluation—though what information he could derive from them, Wilhuff is unsure. “I came to you because there may be more to consider in our little event. He came from the Outer Rim, yes, but he has connections to the Core, connections with important people. Family names, remember? There’s ties deeper than a normal familial promotion. He was _sent_ here.”

“I know.”

“I don’t have enough information, there’s nothing in the databanks—you know?”

“There’s _something_.” Vader hisses, surprising Wilhuff with his intensity and with his echoing of Wilhuff’s observations. “He wasn’t a normal cadet.”

“Yes. Right. Exactly.” Wilhuff agrees, looking around him at the room. If anything, it mimics Vader’s suit, dark and solid, yet the shadows are not all threatening. “What do you…do in here?”

Vader turns back to him, relaxing somewhat. “Wilhuff, we have an investigation.”

“Right. I’m simply…wondering.” Wilhuff gestures to the seat, featureless against the wall. “You meditate?”

“I meditate.” Vader nods. “When my master calls, I receive him here.”

“Your—Emperor Palpatine. Yes.” Wilhuff processes the information again, shaking himself back to his point. “We should go to the Core. We should call a conference, find these people our boy knew. Interview them in person.”

“Governor Tarkin—“

“Please, call me Wilhuff.” Wilhuff waves him on. “I know this is outside my sector, but someone needs to pursue this further. You can take the _Executor_ , leave the sector, find these people. I’ll stay on Eriadu to manage concerns here.”

“Wilhuff?” Vader looks to him in surprise, a smile on his face. “Okay, ah—there’s no need to be so dramatic. You are allowed to accompany me. Yes, this is a military operation which we both organize, and yes, you are technically a sector moff, but there is no need to let such prosaic concerns limit your action. There’s also no need to follow procedure. Formal interviews are useful, yes, but I doubt the people we’re dealing with will respond favorably. You can know how difficult it is to bring in someone for questioning if they don’t want to be brought.

“You are a politician. You have your…skills, there.” Vader continues. “Since we lack the information for a security operation, we can try a less direct method of evaluation. There are a number of Imperial locations in the Core where we can host an event of one kind or another. Inviting important people is easy enough.”

“And you’d want me to…interview them. Informally.” Wilhuff nods, his eyes gleaming with sudden predatory glee. “Lord Vader, that’s _brilliant.”_

Vader tries to hide his smile, but Wilhuff thrills as the other man moves. “It’s not so unusual. On Coruscant, it was practically normal routine to be on your guard at any formal reception.”

Wilhuff nods, quiet as he considers the information. A military man, who’d been to receptions on Coruscant—a war hero? Some high-ranking general or captain? But he’s so young, would have been even younger during the war—

“I can begin drafting a guest list right away. Will we—I’ll have Captain Cass contact the Emperor’s secretaries, arrange the event—”

“No need.” Vader waves a gloved hand, shaking his head. “We are his representatives. Your command, and mine, will be enough to ensure that these dignitaries show up on time.”

Wilhuff pauses, squaring his shoulders. “Right. Of course. Then…I’ll draw up the schedule.”

“The _Executor_ will prepare for transit shortly. Unless there’s any other pressing concerns to address while we’re in-sector?”

Wilhuff shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t be handled remotely. Your garrison is in place on Seswenna, and the Outlands are patrolling the trade routes. The sector is secured.”

“A testament to your efficiency, Governor.” Vader nods once, smiling as he reaches to replace his helmet. “To the Core, then.”

“To the Core.” Wilhuff acknowledges, turning to leave the room. His eyes are shocked by the return to the bright hallway, but he adjusts quickly, walking with quick long strides to return to the administrative levels. He’ll need to do his research. _More_ research. He needs to know the faces and names of every person connected to this investigation, every detail of their lives that could be useful. He’ll have to work in his questions, tying them to conversation, without ever revealing that he’s questioning them. It will, in short, take the full repertoire of his skills as a politician.

Core residents have a tendency to underestimate the residents of the Outer Rim. Once this all finishes, Wilhuff is sure, those assumptions will be very much destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for any delays. I'm running out of time to write, and these chapters are getting progressively longer--I know roughly how things are going to work, but getting there is always the problem. As always, your reviews are seriously a huge part of how/why I continue and push myself, and I just pull them up sometimes to read them all in excited glee. Even the keysmashes. (Especially the keysmashes.) Thank you all.


	7. The Bishop

Just as before, Wilhuff has prepared extensively for this encounter. Though there is nothing different about the space around Corulag, the pressure of the _Core_ , the Inner Core, bears down upon him like the light from the nearest star, reminding him of his place.

_Tarkin, right? You know, I remember one of you handling the cowboys on the Outer Rim—that was a Tarkin, wasn’t it?_

_Really, Mister Tarkin, I’m flattered by your attention, but the Consortium doesn’t need your favors. We’ll do just fine on our own._

_Eriadu thinks too much of itself. Your senator is far too proud of that little mudball. Why don’t you just go back there, and leave the politics to_ real _movers and shakers?_

Wilhuff does not treasure his anger. He does not store it up, saving it for special moments. But he can feel it burning, like an ember behind his eyes, tight and focused.

Taking a deep breath, Wilhuff lets the tension ease from his shoulders, reminding himself of his role here. He is not here to pick fights. He isn’t even here to disrupt normal Core businesses. He is merely following a lead, a _hunch_. He is here to find out why a man would kill himself, after being manipulated into place by his own family.

Vader has been quiet, almost inaccessible as they made the leap to hyperspace. Granted, Wilhuff knew that the Dark Lord maintained irregular hours, but after their conversations, he had expected _some_ chance to share information. Vader knew something, knew more than he was letting on, and Wilhuff felt the absence of that information quite keenly. They were supposed to coordinate. They were meant to be partners. And yet Vader felt he could still keep secrets.

Coordinating the event had been just as easy as Vader promised. The Imperial academy on Corulag was happy to welcome the first moff of the Empire, tripping over themselves to provide a reception. Though Wilhuff had only a vague idea of what their training protocols involved, any chance to observe the next generation of soldiers would be beneficial, and Wilhuff approved their recommended itinerary with little adjustment. Planetfall was easy and quiet, giving Wilhuff and Vader the opportunity to accept the quarters provided for them, and Wilhuff had turned to the problem of his wardrobe.

The Imperial uniform would not do. Not for tonight, at least. Vader could insist on his armor and his cape, a huge looming shadow in any room, but if Wilhuff was to get any useful information from these people, he would need to speak their language. They would evaluate him toe to tip, every stitch and thread and fiber. Though attempting to stick close to the new Imperial uniforms, Wilhuff has approved of his final costume: a silver ( _not_ gray) tunic, with a purple and blue sash taking the place of the uniform’s clean lines. His pants are a darker blue, echoing the sash, and he accepts the offer of silver cufflinks to pin his sleeves in place, feeling the rough texture of the fabric beneath his fingers. It is hardly opulent—he may actually be underdressed—but he also knows that should there be any recordings made of this event, his presentation will mean everything to the right audience.

To Core citizens, he may seem underdressed, only sparsely decorated. To those of the Middle or Outer Rim, his simplicity will make the others seem gaudy, overstated, trumpet birds with too much to say and no substance to speak of. Wilhuff smiles to himself, pleased by what he sees in the mirror before him, and enters the magnificent Corulag ballroom.

The age range of the attendees is impressive: some of them must be students of the academy, here because of their parents. The names and faces rush back into Wilhuff’s memory, peopling the room without him uttering a single word of greeting. Fortunately, this kind of event is not as formal as his speech on Seswenna, and he is able to enter without formal greetings or announcements of his arrival. A life-sculpture sits in the middle of the room, morphing with aqueous ebbs and flows, and Wilhuff watches it briefly before returning his attention to the people. Everything else is merely set dressing, the careful arrangements of colors and patterns to allow the people to parade in front of them. This is what Palpatine explained to him, those evenings in the private box. Your attention may be on the actors, of course, but it’s only because of the cues from everything else in the theater that you focus on them that way.

Already, Wilhuff can feel himself shifting, adjusting to the environment. His expression is softer and more open, with the hint of a smile the reporters liked to call “wry”. Contrary to opinion, he has never acted timidly in these interactions, even with his taciturn silence: these people are predators in their own ways, and would have turned on him years ago if he had shown any sign of weakness. No, they are metal forged of their own flame, decorated with jewelry and gilded paint but no less dangerous for the decoration.

To illustrate Wilhuff’s musings, a tall woman in a patterned robe moves toward him, nodding deeply as she studies his face. It takes them a moment to process through routine greetings, the formalities beloved by the Inner Core, and Wilhuff watches as she raises a hand to brush back the hair from her face. She doesn’t like this outfit, this costume, yet she plays the game anyway.

“Moff Tarkin. I didn’t realize we’d have a visit from you.” She does not clarify by saying ‘so soon’ or ‘out here’ or ‘like this’, and Wilhuff feels the absence. “I thought Seswenna would put up more of a fight.”

“Seswenna is a concern, yes, but it is not the hotbed of rebellion some ambitious reporters might like to claim.” Wilhuff accepts a glass from a passing server, handling the fluted glass deftly. Something warns him not to mention Vader, and he puts the subject from his mind to concentrate on his companion. “The sector as a whole is prospering. Most of Seswenna realizes this, and is eager to return to the Imperial fold.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re the expert.” The woman smiles, accepting her own glass.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to make it, Councilor. Your banking interests must surely require your attention on Coruscant.”

“You’d be surprised the kind of leniency they’ll show me. Especially when I can demonstrate how this kind of association—” Here, she gestures to the attendees before them. “—corresponds to an upswing in investments. Banking is not the crude mathematics it once was. I deal in people, Moff Tarkin, the currency of trust and relationships just as much as credit chips and loans.”

“And the tumult hasn’t affected your clients? Certainly, the people here seem to be happy, but politicians always tend to speak more with their wallets than with their words.”

Wilhuff is surprised to hear the woman laugh at that, her dark skin flushing as she moves. “If a politician is saying it, then it must be true.”

“Oh, I’ll confess that I’m not immune to the temptation. But I haven’t had the pleasure of dealing with your clients, or vice versa.” The Banking Clans had gotten to Eriadu early. Fortunately, most of the loans—bankrolled by Tarkin investments—have been paid off, but the sting remains. “Speaking of which, I have a few shipping companies who may interest you. I should have reached out sooner, but—”

“There’s no need to flatter me with promises. Your sector will have thousands of banks clamoring to secure bonds, or loans, or even R and D projections, if your shipping companies haven’t already locked down deals with their own creditors. However, since I have the advantage of seeing you in person…” The woman reaches into her sleeve, withdrawing a slim datastick to give it to Wilhuff. “My clients are always happy to cooperate with Imperial interests in any way we can.”

“I’m gratified to hear it, Councilor.” Wilhuff bows again, slipping the stick into his breast pocket, and returns his attention to the other people in the room. He is surprised to see how many recognize him: none from his time on Coruscant, but there are some who remember his name from occasional HoloNet updates, and the truly clever ones have memorized his face after Palpatine declared him a moff. Some of the guests are the vapid celebrities they appear to be, pretty faces and fancy names with only a modicum of intelligence. There are some more suited for the military ground or the engineer’s draft board, forced into their roles to smile and nod as he makes polite conversation. And there are some, a select few, who excel in both roles, deftly juggling any question he asks about shipyards or hyperdrives, resource allocation or mining operations, or children and relatives, all while maintaining a conversation with nary a break in their flow.

Despite himself, Wilhuff is impressed. And beneath the glitter of his amazement, his irritation builds, edging against the comfortable conversation to put him on edge. If a man had been born into such a family—if a boy, trained from childhood, had been provided with all the resources available in this room—why would he become a stormtrooper cadet? Why would he be shunted through a middling military academy just to become a nameless trooper? It was far easier to make the transfer from business into the military, earning some honorary title like “Rear-Guard” or “Overseer” while needing little to no military experience. Wilhuff is doing it himself: if the boy’s parents had wanted him to be their military liaison, there was no need to ship him off on the _Executor._ As a charming, middle-aged couple takes their leave of him, Wilhuff steps back towards the wall of the room, hiding in the shadows of the curving, elegant arches as he tries to think.

“You’re Moff Tarkin.” The sheer rudeness of the statement—almost an accusation—startles him, and Wilhuff turns to find a young woman staring at him with a dangerous intensity. She’s young, incredibly young, and Wilhuff remembers his earlier assessment. This is someone’s daughter, here either because she begged to come or because her parents are hoping to educate her in the ways of their world.

Yet she does not wear a dress. She could be beautiful, far more beautiful than the older women in all their makeup, and she could have dressed to accentuate her natural advantages. Wilhuff had known plenty of women like that on Coruscant, lawyers and lobbyists who honed their skills and then struck whenever someone weakened. He had admired it then. But this woman, this girl, is in a tunic and pants much like his own, her hair fiercely short, and her eyes stare right past his smile and into his brain.

Wilhuff lets his smile fade, and returns her look with the intensity it deserves, gratified to find that she takes a step back in recognition. “I am. And you are?”

“Cadet Oraken. I go to the academy.” She nods quickly, standing straight in parade rest. Wilhuff is sure that if he demanded a salute, she would give it.

“And you’re here?”

“It was ‘advised’ that all cadets preparing to graduate attend this…” Oraken coughs, relaxing. “Party. I have yet to understand why.”

“But you recognized me.” Interested now, Wilhuff turns fully to give her his attention, watching her nod again.

“Yes. Everyone in the academy knows you now. You—” She pauses only briefly, the light of understanding dawning in her eyes. “You called this party. You wanted this to happen.”

“As much as I am loath to admit it, yes. It seems that Academy administrators and local businesspeople are more than happy to accommodate the request of a moff, even one from Eriadu.”

“It doesn’t matter _where_ you’re from.” Oraken insists, surprising Wilhuff more with this statement than with anything else. “You’ve spoken to the Emperor himself. He’s authorized your movements.”

“As he does with any moff. The fact that I’ve spoken with the Emperor is not that notable. He makes speeches.” Wilhuff shrugs, unsure of this line of questioning. He does not have any questions for her, and that makes them uneven.

This changes quickly, however, as Oraken narrows her eyes. “Those women, you were speaking to? The Cirulls? If they tell you anything about the Academy, don’t listen. They’re just wasting your time.”

“Lydia Cirull indicated that the administrator of the Academy is a personal friend of hers.”

“Which is _exactly_ why you can’t listen to them. Their son Darrin was only here for a year, right when the crisis was ending, and as soon as the recruitment started for the Imperial army, he was gone. Just like that.” Oraken inhales sharply, her tension visible in her shoulders. “He was barely even qualified. He only got through because Lydia—”

“Cadet.” Wilhuff says once, pleased to see how Oraken both steps back again and forces herself to relax. She’ll go far, if she gets the chance. “You’re telling me that Darrin—and by extension, Lydia—don’t understand the fullness of the Academy’s work?”

“Lydia wouldn’t know what an academy was for if she was strapped into our lecture seats.” Oraken insists. Wilhuff closes his eyes for a moment, separating out the pieces of information assaulting him in a rush, and finally he nods again to look to the woman.

“At ease. It’s not prudent, cadet, to give your personal opinions of individuals—very powerful individuals, I might add—unless specifically asked by a superior officer.” Wilhuff pauses, then concludes. “Even then, it might be more prudent to lie. Carefully.”

To her credit, Oraken seems to accept the correction well, her resolve preventing her from taking the criticism as a personal insult and instead bolstering her own resolution. “Noted, sir.”

“However, you were right to warn me. I am an outsider here, a foreigner in this sector. Despite your claim, it _does_ matter that I am from Eriadu: there are things here I don’t recognize, and can’t recognize, unless someone explains why they are not right.” Wilhuff watches Oraken’s quick nod as she follows. “It’s getting late. You likely have coursework to return to, yes?”

This time, Oraken is more hesitant to respond, and Wilhuff rewards her with a sharp smile as she nods. “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Then allow me to accompany you back to the Academy grounds. It would be _very_ interesting to hear just what you think about Darrin and Lydia Cirull.”

===

“She was angry. Thought it was unfair that Darrin could transfer out so easily, with such little fuss, just because he was Lydia’s son.” Wilhuff is recounting his conversation with Cadet Oraken, having reconfigured the ready room to make space for both Vader and Captain Cass. (Despite the cost in resources, Wilhuff has authorized Cass to appear via holotransmission, his form shadowy and faded.) By the door, two troopers stand guard, but their presence is more ceremonial than anything: Wilhuff is confident that Vader would handle any intruder personally. “Some of her irritation was routine schoolyard sniping. Cass, I’m sure you know the sort—he avoided classwork, didn’t contribute in lectures. She believed his scores were average at best.”

Wilhuff shrugs, talking partially to himself as he turns to the window. “It seems he certainly wasn’t the dynamic personality indicated in his personnel file. It’s possible the administrator of the facility saw the best in Cadet Cirull, easing his recruitment when it came. Though it seems he wasn’t markedly different from the evidence we have on the _Executor_ , Oraken said he certainly wasn’t happy about the changes in Imperial rule. I tried to press her for information, but she wasn’t sure about what he talked about with his friends. I think there’s reason to suspect he was considering defecting.”

“If he was going to defect, why bother joining up in the first place?” Cass points out, shifting in his seat.

“If he was going to become a businessman, why would his mothers bother enrolling him in the Academy?” Wilhuff counters. “Lydia may have wanted him in just to satisfy her personal connections, but surely Pryeen must have had other considerations. He was their only son.”

“Where do Lydia and Pryeen live? When they aren’t interfering with Imperial admissions, that is.” Vader cuts in, his tone firm.

“They have residences in multiple sectors. Pryeen manages legal representation for Core cultural concerns on Coruscant, and she travels throughout the Core for her work. Lydia nominally acts as the economic advisor for the Corulag branch of a trade corporation, based in the Outer Rim sector where she and Darrin were born, but she hasn’t done much since Palpatine took power.” Wilhuff sighs roughly, returning to his chair to grasp the back with both hands. “You’d tell me if I was seeing things, surely. Vader? Cass? Surely we didn’t come here simply because of my paranoia.”

“It is not paranoia if it turns out to be true.” Vader observes, moving to stand. “You are not alone in your perceptions, Moff Tarkin. Darrien Cirull was forced through the Academy and maneuvered into position. I believe our best assumption—at this point, with no new information—is that he was intended to be placed on the _Executor_.”

“Under your command.” Wilhuff continues. “To spy on your movements? Even if he managed to communicate them to his parents, what benefit would that give them that couldn’t be acquired through more conventional means?”

“Lydia was—is—an economic manager. Could there be any benefit in knowing the movement of the _Executor_ in an economic sense?”

Wilhuff shrugs, focused on the surface of the table. “Surely they wouldn’t want to insert him into a trooper position if he was meant to inform someone of your movements. The troopers wouldn’t be notified in advance, would they?”

“Depends on the movement.” Cass speaks up, glancing from Vader to Wilhuff. “Begging your permission, sirs—but the troopers are usually aware of where the _Executor_ plans to make landfall. There are exceptions—Lord Vader, your movements are sometimes random—but they do know.”

“The question remains: why not make him a captain? Or a lieutenant? Does Lydia’s influence not extend that far?”

“Or were they trying to avoid our suspicion?” Wilhuff straightens. “Vader. I beg forgiveness of my ignorance in these matters, but I presume you meet with your lieutenants semi-regularly.”

“It is more likely that I would meet with the garrison commanders.” Vader extends a hand, half-shrugging. “The boy was barely out of his teens, Governor Tarkin, it’s unlikely I would have recognized him. There was no need for him to hide behind a helmet.”

“We’re thinking about this wrong.” Wilhuff balls a hand into a fist, pounding it once against the back of his chair. “We’re trying to guess at their motives, searching out their reasoning, and we still have too little information.”

“The records of the Academy are open to us, Governor—”

“ _No_.” Wilhuff realizes, ignoring Vader’s irritation. “The records can’t tell us anything more. But Cadet Oraken—her classmates, her instructors—they could tell us something.”

The other two men are silent, waiting for Wilhuff to continue. It takes him a moment to realize their expectation, looking up suddenly to face Vader.

“I have to go to the Academy. I’m a moff, aren’t I. It would be entirely within my purview to examine the next generation of Imperial staff.”

Vader says nothing for a moment, considering Wilhuff closely. “I will be accompanying you.”

Wilhuff is surprised by the pronouncement—not quite an order, but firm enough to brook no argument—and he can feel Cass’s surprise through the hologram. “You will draw some attention.”

“Good. That will allow you to do your work even more effectively.” Vader folds his arms, leaving Wilhuff to sigh in acceptance. With a murmured sign-off, Cass’s hologram disappears, and Wilhuff is left in semi-darkness to try and understand the man in front of him.

“…Lord Vader.” Wilhuff isn’t sure what he wants to say, not really—Vader _will_ be out of place, horribly out of place. “I do not need a security escort in the middle of an Imperial academy.”

“I will not let you go in there alone.” Vader’s tone is hardening, more forceful as he faces Wilhuff. “There are things moving beyond even your purview, Governor Tarkin.”

Wilhuff can feel how the dismissal incites him, his anger rising. He is a _moff_ now, and after all this time—after their developed working relationship, after their mutual _trust_ —Vader is stonewalling him.

Wilhuff is unsure why this makes him so upset, and tries to let the emotion go, ignoring it as it fades.

“Fine.” Wilhuff says, though his tone is not free of sarcasm. “You’ll accompany me to the academy. Be ready by oh six hundred and meet me outside our quarters.”

“Very well.” Vader nods, leaving Wilhuff to turn quickly and march back out into the hallway. Their quarters are not sumptuous, and Wilhuff prefers the lack of decoration. Still, leaving the room has done his temper some good, and Wilhuff ends up standing in his own room to draw up his battle plans for the next day.

Yes. Battle plans. For this is a war, even if their combatants don’t know it yet. And it will be Wilhuff, _not_ Vader, that will turn this encounter to his benefit.

==

Wilhuff has been surprised by how quickly his tastes have changed. On Eriadu, the cultural relics of the city stand proud amidst the cars and tramways, and Wilhuff has learned to enjoy the plays and festivals. Art has its place, even if only as a lesson about how humans think and act. People are the same in all times and all places, even if their costumes change: it’s far easier to simply play a role already written, revisited again and again by better writers, than to try and invent your script on the spot.

Then again, he has always appreciated the rigor of the military. Military is its own theater, with all the participants requiring their own “costumes”, their movements “scripted” by others. The clean lines of Imperial uniforms are especially appealing, and as Wilhuff enters the Imperial Academy of Corulag, he remembers one other advantage of military life.

Any man in uniform is immediately more attractive, with the standards of Imperial inspection ensuring everyone is presented to their best. And Corulag’s cadets—and their instructors—display their uniforms to perfection.

These thoughts are passing fantasies for Wilhuff, distractions as he listens to the inane chatter of the Academy director and hears the footsteps of Vader behind him. Their graduating cadets had been paraded first, most of them recognizable to Wilhuff from the event last night, and he is pleased to note how Cadet Oraken notices him, tenses, but makes no move to catch his attention. He makes a note to consider her file more closely upon return to the _Executor_ , and potentially add a request to her career track. The other men and women, so _young_ in Wilhuff’s eyes, are quiet, focused, and determined. Wilhuff can sense the focus in them, the drive that has placed them here, and considers where Cadet Cirull had fallen.

Was he driven? Had he competed with the others, striving for recognition? Did they recognize some fire in him, and meet it with their own?

Vader and Wilhuff are mostly quiet, but fortunately, Director Pleet is able to ramble uninterrupted for nearly a full hour in his tour. After the parade of the upcoming graduates, there is a tour of the grounds, a patrol of their security measures, and a review of the curriculum. Wilhuff does his best to keep up, his mind running on two tracks at once, but he admits to some distraction as the director continues. As Pleet mentions an evaluation of the younger cadets, Wilhuff stops him, turning for the first time to make a direct request.

“I’d like to see your graduates.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing undue, of course. I assume they have some lessons today, some reviews or something we can watch.”

“I—” Director Pleet adopts an easy smile, nodding. “Of course. If that’s what you’d like to see.”

“I don’t seek to disrupt their routine.” Wilhuff nods his head once. “I recognize the importance of routine. But given my limited opportunities for these visits….”

“Of course! Of course.” Pleet repeats, glancing behind Wilhuff to Vader. “Lord Vader, I presume—”

“I will be joining the moff in this observation.” Vader says flatly, leaving Pleet to nod quickly. As Pleet hurries off, moving to coordinate this new request, Wilhuff tries to understand his next step. There hasn’t been anything telling yet—nothing new, nothing inspiring. Finally, in a moment of desperation, he asks,

“Is anything clearer?”

“Something is wrong.” Vader says lowly, his tone unclear. Wilhuff tenses at how frustratingly unhelpful the man is being, but offers no note of correction. If Vader wishes to leave him out of this investigation, so be it.

With the escort of Pleet’s secretary, Wilhuff and Vader are led to a small plaza, watching the group of cadets file out into the sunlight to start assembling an exercise course. Wilhuff isn’t certain of the routine here, or whether this is normal procedure for these cadets, but none of them focus on him as they get to work. He is, despite himself, impressed.

Though Pleet is still hovering nearby, offering refreshments— _refreshments?_ —and trying to point out cadets of note, Wilhuff has stopped paying attention. He moves to watch the group, seeing how some cadets move faster or with more purpose than their counterparts, and how the other cadets fall into line behind them. He watches Oraken, asserting her own place in the exercise while never going so far as to disrupt the others. Stepping off the plaza, Wilhuff moves to stand at the side of their exercise ground, finally gesturing once to Oraken to have her dart to his side.

“Moff Tarkin!” The woman is out of breath, recovering from the exercise, but Wilhuff does not pause for pleasantries.

“Cadet. Your class is impressive.”

“We have to be.” Oraken does not elaborate, but watches Wilhuff closely. “Is this about Darrin?”

“Perhaps.” Wilhuff looks back to where Vader stands, drawing Director Pleet’s attention to distract him from Wilhuff’s boldness. At least he’s being cooperative. “If I summoned other cadets, would they recognize the order?”

“I—Yes, sir. If they don’t, you can just order them verbally.” Oraken blinks, glancing to Wilhuff’s insignia plaque. “You’re a commanding officer.”

“Ah.” Wilhuff nods, gesturing for her to return. “Stay attentive, but go back to your work.”

Oraken nods, her face showing her confusion, but Wilhuff does not stop to answer her questions as he starts to identify other cadets. The process is sporadic, only partially effective, but he does begin to understand the connections in this group. Some cadets hadn’t noticed Cadet Cirull, while others had presumed some closeness; some cadets had hated him, while others had appreciated his attention. Like in any social group, the dynamics vary from person to person, and Wilhuff confirms his earlier suspicions.

That Cirull had been connected was clear. Other cadets, with equally prominent parents, had already known his name, but they echoed Wilhuff’s surprise at his early graduation. Few of them believed he truly deserved the promotion, but saw no reason to report to the director about the issue. Of greater interest were the few hints of sedition that Oraken had observed, and the realistic concern that Cirull could have posed.

“He wasn’t happy about going to an ‘Imperial’ academy. Kept calling it by the old name, even when the teachers punished him for it.”

“I mean, a lot of us _thought_ like he did—it was confusing, with the war ending, but times change. Darrin didn’t.”

“His parents were odd. They had weird friends, not normal business people, and they visited a _lot_. My parents sent me here so they didn’t have to see me ever—Darrin saw his mom almost every week.”

Wilhuff is thrilled, even though these impromptu interviews do not provide tangible links. He’d met Lydia Cirull, and hadn’t sensed anything off about her—but she was a professional businesswoman. She negotiated deals worth millions of credits on a daily basis, and her control of her expression was likely excellent. But her son had not had her experience. He had not learned to quiet his Republican sympathies, or to conceal his mother’s non-business links. And the level of attention—if Lydia Cirull had loved her son so much that she had to visit weekly, then she had even less reason to send him to a military academy.

And then there was her companion.

Apparently another woman had come with Lydia, on a few occasions when visiting Darrin. She had been dressed as a servant, but most of the cadets were confident that she was _not_ suited for housework. They would know—they had grown up with nannies and maids their entire lives, and knew how domestic help were meant to act. This woman, a Twi’lek, had not acted that way.

Wilhuff is quiet as he dismisses the last cadet, moving to return to the plaza to come to Vader’s side. His interaction with Director Pleet is quick and muted, the barest minimum of formalities as he thanks the director for his time, and despite his uncertainties, he moves to grasp Vader’s arm to physically move him away from the director.

“It was Lydia.”

“ _What_ was Lydia?” Vader is distracted, suddenly returning his attention to Wilhuff.

“Lydia had other connections, other sympathies. It wasn’t rebellion, not entirely, but she burdened her son with Republican sympathies. She may have inserted him onto your ship as an early warning system, to warn her allies of your arrival. They didn’t want Imperial codes, or access to you personally—it was just your ship, your movement, they needed to confirm.”

“To put her son on my ship was a huge risk, especially if he held her sympathies.”

“Maybe he knew that. Maybe she didn’t realize what it would cost him to sit in a garrison of troopers, suppressing his own desire to see the Republic restored.” Wilhuff’s grip tightens, tugging at Vader. “Cadet Cirull had been trained before coming to the academy. One of the cadets remembered him fighting with an instructor, during their hand-to-hand combat instruction: ‘If I can beat you with my form, then why do I need to change it?’, that sort of thing. He’d asked the instructor why they weren’t training in ‘Makashi’—apparently it was a superior form, something he’d already known, which means Lydia wasn’t only training him to be a businessman—”

“ _Makashi?_ ” At once, Vader’s demeanor changes, his attention focused like a laser on Wilhuff’s words. Wilhuff hesitates, surprised by the shift, but continues.

“We need to find Lydia again, talk to her in detail—”

“There is no _time_ for talking.” Vader jerks away from Wilhuff’s grip, raising a hand to his helmet to start relaying orders to the _Executor._ Wilhuff steps back in surprise, hurt and confused by the sudden rush, and is forced to wait as Vader glances back at Director Plett.

“Director: are your cadets able to leave the Academy and go into the field?”

Plett is as unsettled as Wilhuff, scrambling for security. “We—they—I can approve an excursion, but they haven’t graduated—”

“Give them their blasters and put them under the command of Moff Tarkin. A garrison of troopers is en route to the planet, and it may be beneficial for these cadets to see what is expected of them.”

“But—Lord Vader, they are little more than children—”

“Then they are the perfect age to learn.” Vader turns again, moving quickly to force Wilhuff into a jog beside him.

“Lord Vader!”

“Governor Tarkin. You are under no compulsion to join me or the troopers, but I had assumed—”

“You assume _much_ , Lord Vader, and I refuse to let you strongarm me into blind obedience, this is _madness_! What are we doing? What is happening?”

As Vader reaches the entrance to the academy, he finally slows, stopping to look Wilhuff in the eye. The look is dark and foreboding, somehow conveying the weight of Vader’s statement even through the solidity of the mask.

“Governor Tarkin: we are hunting _Jedi_.”


	8. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader has a very specific role in this Empire. Though not public, it shapes his presence nonetheless.

Wilhuff is not entirely familiar with the ways of the Jedi. On the Outer Rim, a Jedi is rarer than accidentally flying into a nebula, or an honest politician. (Har, har, he’s heard that more than once.) He’d been given the official incident report for Order 66, but the sterilized dictates of the Empire revealed little. The Jedi were extinct, relegated to the past. Wilhuff has forgotten them entirely.

By the flurry of action prompted by Vader’s orders, it seems that the _Executor_ is well-aware of her task. A shuttle, with a full garrison of troopers, is already en route to the city center as Vader commandeers a transport, taking over the pilot’s seat himself while Wilhuff watches the cadets scramble into position. He can tell that this is unusual—Vader has gone silent, his focus on the controls, and the cadets barely meet each other’s eyes as they cling to their blasters. It has been some time since Wilhuff saw action. Usually, Vader commands these incidents alone.

“The troopers and I will secure the area. You take the cadets and watch the hangars and landing platforms, make sure no one leaves.” Vader gives orders quickly and effectively as he lands the transport, moving through the transport hold without a break in his stride. Wilhuff is caught in his wake, watching the cape snap with Vader’s movements, and waits until the trooper transport has begun disgorging its passengers to turn to his own new crew.

“Well. Cadets.” Wilhuff hesitates. They may be capable soldiers, but they are still mostly children, their faces clean-shaven and eyes bright and full.

_Then they are the perfect age to learn._

“Oraken.” Wilhuff barks, clicking his heels in parade rest. Like a surprised feline, the cadet scurries forward, saluting sharply as Wilhuff nods. “This may be a city neighborhood, but it is still unfamiliar territory. Proceed with caution. I want squads of three to break off, moving walkways and sidewalks to locate each potential exit point. You, in the back—”

“Riley, sir.”

“Cadet Riley. You’re with me.” Wilhuff beckons, watching the cadets scramble to organize. In a testament to their training, there is no delay, and Riley comes to Wilhuff’s side to give another salute.

“Governor Tarkin, what about—”

“Oraken, I trust you are capable enough in the field.” Wilhuff brooks no argument, waving her onward. “Riley, your blaster.”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“I don’t carry one as part of my uniform.” Wilhuff explains, holding out a hand. Considering that his proficiency—and preference—is for space battles, he rarely needs to bother with one anyway. Fortunately, Riley does not complain further, and Wilhuff takes the blaster to check its settings and nod.

“Vader’s men will already be surrounding the Cirull house.” Wilhuff pauses, glancing down the walkway. “I suppose it’s an estate, when it’s this large. You and I will be following Vader himself.”

“Is that…safe?” Riley hides their tension well, but Wilhuff allows himself the twitch of irritation.

“The rewards outweigh any risk.” Wilhuff answers shortly, moving to walk in the direction Vader had gone. Though most of the troopers are gone, having dispersed along the alleys and walkways, there are some who watch as Wilhuff moves forward.

After the tramping of feet and whoosh of transport engines, the neighborhood is shockingly silent, with traffic entirely absent from the streets. Wilhuff comes to the gate of the Cirull house, intrigued to find the control panel already fried off the wall, and steps into the elegant front garden just as a resounding crash comes from inside the house.

Riley jumps, already tense, but Wilhuff does not allow himself the luxury. There is movement on the upper floors, troopers in position on the roof, and Wilhuff thinks for a moment before flicking on his comm.

“Don’t ignore the possibility of secret exits or tradesmen routes. These larger estates prefer unobtrusive pathways for servants.”

He can see the troopers on the roof glancing to each other, unsure whether to respond. Suddenly, with surprising venom, Vader’s voice hisses over the comm, loud in Wilhuff’s ear.

“You are not meant to be here, Governor.”

“Ridiculous. I have every right to be here.” Wilhuff ignores the reprimand, moving instead to take Riley through the front door of the house. Wide windows and skylights leave a huge atrium bathed in natural light, with fountains and seating arrangements sprinkled liberally through the space. To their right, another crash informs them of movement, and Wilhuff grips his blaster more tightly as he turns to watch.

“I wouldn’t do that, sir.” A soft voice comes from a helmeted trooper beside him, surprising Wilhuff for the first time. Wilhuff pauses, watching him, then frowns.

“Why not?”

“Vader prefers not to have us interfere.” The trooper shrugs, hefting his rifle. “Our shots do more harm than good.”

“So you’ve done this before?”

“This? Vader is the Jedi hunter. We leave it to him and him alone.” The trooper nods, tensing as another crash comes from the floor above.

“So he just rushes in, alone, to…what? What can a man expect to do against—” Wilhuff turns as a crash indicates shattering glass, a woman thrust backwards through the newly created opening to land in the atrium amidst the raining shards.

There is little to say now, as the woman gets to her feet and catches her breath. She is non-human, clearly a Twi’lek from the headtails draped down her back, and her right hand holds a bright green beam of light, brilliant even in the light of the room.

Wilhuff can see her muttering something under her breath, lips moving as she crouches, but the arrival of Vader is far more arresting, his cape swallowing him like a living shadow as he follows the woman through the opening and stands tall. His breathing is labored and rough, exacerbated by the mask, but this is not the most vital part of Vader’s presence.

In his hand, matching the woman’s weapon like a sickly twin, is a crimson shaft of light, casting a deadly glow on the darkness of his armor.

“Nik, tshae falla—” The woman says aloud, holding her blade in front of her as she begins to walk slowly through the atrium. Her movements are slow, unconsciously seductive in their grace, but Vader makes no movement as she changes position.

“Your resistance here will not help your patron.” Vader intones, raising his blade in front of him so that it is parallel with his spine. Wilhuff remembers how the mask functions, how Vader’s expressions are now hidden from the world, and the thought of the man inside that mask makes his chest tense.

“You were our brother.” The woman replies, her eyes fixed on Vader. Wilhuff can feel the expectation, the need for action, and his finger twitches on his blaster as the woman moves forward too fast for human sight.

Vader moves equally as fast, bringing his saber around to bat away the woman’s strike with no more effort than he would a pesky fly. The woman uses the momentum to roll to the side, behind Vader as she makes another leap forward. Wilhuff gasps, knowing he is too late to warn the other man, but Vader turns again to catch the woman’s blade with his own and throw her to the ground.

“Darrin is dead.” Vader proclaims, prompting the woman to widen her eyes. “All your training, and it could not save even him.”

The woman bares her teeth, flipping backwards to regain some distance before rushing forward again. This time, her blow is not sideways or indirect, but uses both hands to strike directly at Vader’s chest, forcing him to catch the strike more fully this time. Instead of a simple redirect, Vader is forced to use his own strength to match hers, her hands tight around the hilt of her blade.

“This story is already finished for you, Jedi.” Vader finally manages to gain the upper hand, switching to a one-handed grip to leave his left hand free.

“Do not use that title, do not call us by that name when you _shared_ it with us—” The woman gasps, dodging another swipe from Vader’s blade, then brings up her own hand to push her back along the floor.

“All your teaching, and you merely run and hide! What would your teachers think now, to see you cowering in your own fear.”

“There will be others! Death is not the worst fate to befall one, there are worse things in this galaxy than to lose one’s life—”

“It’s good to hear you think that way.” Vader spins, bringing his blade in for a low strike, but the woman’s agility keeps her from his range. “It means your own death will be simple.”

“Better to be dead than to be a dead man walking.” The woman hisses, her teeth bared, and Wilhuff tenses as she charges again. He is unsure why he is so concerned—Vader is clearly capable of meeting her strikes. Yet this time, Vader does not raise his blade, and Wilhuff stares as Vader merely raises a hand and stops the woman in her tracks.

Her struggle is evident, but an unseen power keeps her pinned. Slowly, in tiny increments, she begins to lift off the ground, Vader’s fingers curling with the exertion of moving her despite her resistance. Though there is little sound, and there is little action, Wilhuff finds it hard to claim that there is nothing happening. The effort is clear, even if he knows little about what is actually happening.

“You’ve failed, Mithura. The Cirulls will die because you. You will die because of your own inability. You will die, by my hand, bested by your own fear and pain.” Vader clenches his fist, causing the woman’s back to arch painfully, and she cries out before dropping her lightsaber. Free of her grip, the blade disappears back into the hilt, and Wilhuff holds his breath as Vader approaches her floating form.

“You were our brother, Anakin Skywalker, you were the best of us—"

“You are just as much a fool as the rest of them.” Vader’s voice is quieter now, almost intimate, and he lifts his blade to bring it close to the woman’s cheek. Her breaths are short and pained, gasping as she tries to struggle away from the light, but Vader does not move. Finally, after the tension of waiting, Vader moves the blade to the back of the woman’s head, bringing it up in a swift movement to sever one of her headtails.

Beside him, Wilhuff can hear Riley’s soft groan, the cadet’s empathy making them dangerously weak. Wilhuff turns, studying the sudden pale color of Riley’s face, and reaches up to shake the cadet by one shoulder before returning his attention to Vader. Already, he’s released the woman, dropping her to the floor to let her start sobbing. Wilhuff cannot tell why she is no longer resisting—whether the pain is too much, or whether she is merely incapable of mounting any resistance—and her hands move to the twitching, rippling skin around her cauterized wound.

“Captain.” Vader decrees, his voice echoing in the atrium. “Stabilize the prisoner and have her escorted back to my ship. She knows there are others—perhaps she will be so kind as to introduce us to them.”

The stormtrooper captain, appearing from the shadows, nods quickly as he leads his men to the woman now collapsed against the ground. Her cries begin to mount into sobs, huge heaving sounds that undulate like a song, and Wilhuff can feel the sensation creeping up his arms and back to arrest the primitive part of his brain. A being, in pain, makes a more convincing argument than any well-spoken lawyer.

This is the fate destined for the Jedi.

The troopers more quickly, already tending to her wound while lifting her roughly to her feet, and Wilhuff can only watch as she is dragged from the house. She will be led through the front door: all of the neighbors, having hidden in their homes, will be watching. A formal report will be given, sometime later, but everyone will see. Everyone will know. The Cirulls will come into custody, probably to undergo Vader’s torture, and then they will die quietly.

Wilhuff realizes that their assets will become the property of the Empire, and notes to himself that at least there is some tangible benefit from all this.

As the troopers move, Vader remains standing, alone amidst the glass. Wilhuff shoves his blaster back into Riley’s hands, moving forward past the chairs remaining, and comes to Vader’s side without any consideration of the distance involved. Vader has not moved, his saber still in his hand though now deactivated, and Wilhuff grabs at his arm to try and shake him from his reverie.

Vader turns, lifting his arm with a force Wilhuff did not expect—Wilhuff stumbles back, surprised, and Vader seems to start with the same level of shock. Again, there is nothing to say, and Vader turns quickly to bend down and pick up the other lightsaber hilt from where it has fallen. Wilhuff watches, still watching, still unable to do _anything_ , and he waits as Vader approaches him again and holds up both saber hilts in both hands.

“I was once a Jedi.” Vader says, by way of explanation. Wilhuff stares down at the saber hilts, more confused than he is willing to admit, and nods once.

“A Jedi no longer.”

“She intended to use Cirull’s presence to predict my movements. She would have warned other Jedi, if it seemed that I knew their location.” Vader closes his hands around the hilts, clipping them to his belt. “Cirull could not accept the enormity of his orders. He knew that he was the first hope, the only hope, for his mother’s friend. The burden was too great.”

“And Lydia?”

“She is also in our custody.” Vader glances up, watching the troopers file out. “She was harboring a fugitive. The courts will find plenty of charges to bring against her.”

“And—” Wilhuff wants to ask, wants to clarify, needs to find a way to maintain this conversation. There is something missing here, but he cannot tell what it is. “You…”

“She never landed a blow.” Vader is quiet for a moment, hand brushing against the hilts at his hip. “Likely no more than a Padawan. We missed more of them, since they weren’t monitored as closely.”

The silence in the atrium is stifling, slipping beneath Wilhuff’s skin like stinging nettles, and he squares his shoulders. “I trust you have the incident well in hand, then, Lord Vader.”

“Governor Tarkin.” Vader’s hesitation is clear, but he does not clarify, merely moving past Wilhuff to follow the troopers out of the building. Wilhuff, as always, is left to follow his trail, watching the troopers moving with their quick, precise efficiency as their transport is filled. Distracted, Vader follows them, and Wilhuff is left to face the cadets who come trailing back in their original groups. Like Wilhuff himself, they have been tense and eager, waiting for action, only to be sorely disappointed by the anticlimax of their role. They have all been dragged out here for _nothing_.

A military man Vader may be: but it seems there are things, even with the finest training of a military academy, that a military perspective will never be able to accommodate.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Vadarkin, send help

With credit to Vader, there are no delays in their exit from Corulag. Wilhuff returns to the _Executor_ after a farewell lecture to the graduating cadets, sending a final suggestion along to the mayor of the city and his commanders to deal with the problem of the now-empty Cirull estate. Lydia’s company will likely try to recoup their losses in her arrest, and Wilhuff sees no reason to begrudge them the financial holdings, but this is not his sector. He will stay out of the way. And as Vader sets their course for the Outer Rim once more, whisking them away from the mire of the Core, Wilhuff paces the halls of the _Executor_ and thinks.

In one ear, he has the aria from _Pterian’s Flight_ running, transmitted from his quarters over the personal commband to replicate an audio system. The song is light and happy, as is expected of an aria, and seems at odds with the darkness of the _Executor’s_ depths and the void outside the viewports. However, with the context of the story, Wilhuff knows that this aria is at best a façade of a song. _Pterian’s Flight_ is not a happy opera, and it was not overly popular outside of Eriadu. The young Pterian, chasing his dreams, learns too late that he cannot fly—his flight was a dream, and any escape he accomplishes is undone by the fact that he returns again to another city, with another despotic king and another wily and seductive princess. The language is antiquated, but the joy of the aria is still present in the current rendition, and Wilhuff pauses to let the swell of the strings fill his ears before fading into the gentle voice of the singer.

He thinks of Vader. Vader, whose entire presence, whose entire movement has been a character. It is harder to recognize, with his armor and his mask, but the few glimpses Wilhuff has gotten reveal that Vader is not always the strong arm of Imperial justice he seeks to be. He has adopted these things, forcing his body to fit this mold. Wilhuff does not know whether he should be proud of Vader, for recognizing the need for change, or whether he should deride Vader for giving up his freedom so easily.

Vader had been a Jedi.

Vader…had had a _name_.

Wilhuff tries to imagine that face, the man he’d seen, dressed instead in fine robes and canvas, disdaining the trappings of power. He tries to imagine that man dressed in the pomp and ceremony of a Senator, bejeweled and gilded as he deserved.

He tries to imagine that man devoid of clothing altogether, practicing routines and exercising his talents and—

_No._

Wilhuff is not going to entertain that thought.

Does Vader have regrets? Is he pained, or concerned, or _angry_? Those few snatched moments—Vader had been electric with rage upon hearing of a Jedi, moving with a purpose Wilhuff rarely sees. Tarkins do not get angry. Wilhuff’s childhood had never been marked by shouts or physical violence. Brenton, and Miretara, and even Jova, all had developed silence as their weapon, turning their anger into chilly dismissal rather than igniting a storm of passion.

He thought that the Jedi had been taught the same. The Jedi sought peace, both galactically and individually, and they had to reduce their reactions to do so. And yet Vader reaches so easily for anger, and after the arrest, for personal pain. That had been pain, after all—Wilhuff had noticed. He had noticed in Vader’s angry shove, and his surprise, and his inability to explain. Vader was not the same facing a Jedi as he was in facing rebels, even the lingering acolytes of Count Dooku.

And now they’re simply going to go back, settling back into that pattern of decrees and orders and arrests, without any acknowledgement of Vader’s pain.

Wilhuff clenches a fist, listening as the song comes to an end. As he begins to walk, he plucks the earpiece from his ear and slips it into a breast pocket, considering the dimensions of his next actions.

It is simple enough to find the barracks again. He has been on this level many times, and has even found his way to Vader’s quarters. His apprehension tightens in his fingers, robbing him of breath, but he enters his code and steps inside with no hesitation. He cannot afford to hesitate now.

Vader is standing quickly as the door closes, his hands at his mask as he rises from his meditation seat. Wilhuff forces himself to stand tall, resolute in this unfamiliar place, but it is Vader’s attention that threatens him most. Vader is moving close, but his concern with his helmet is still occupying him. As soon as he stops, however, Wilhuff can see how his arms are already tense, prepared for action he will not see.

“Governor Tarkin. This is most unlike you.”

“You fought a _Jedi_.” Wilhuff emphasizes, holding his arms at his sides. “I may be an interloper, I may be some mere administrative hack, and I may not be one of your men, but that fight is not some incident you can report to the Emperor so blithely. She _knew_ you. She thought she could persuade you of something, change your mind about something—”

“The Jedi are fools and will die as fools.” Vader repeats, refusing to come any closer. Wilhuff lets out a held breath, trying to think, and finally steps forward to hold out a hand.

“Vader, you are on edge. I am your administrative partner in this, it was _my_ investigation that brought us to Corulag—and I need to know whether you’ll be fit to continue working.” This is a lie, a bare-faced unashamed lie, but Wilhuff is not concerned with those details right now. “I know so little about your duties as it stands, but I still respect your role. You face the Jedi, and yet you hesitated—you stopped—”

Vader reaches out, taking Wilhuff’s hand roughly to yank him closer. Wilhuff stops himself, inhaling quickly, and he meets Vader’s blank masked eyes as he tries to understand what is happening. The touch is nice, yes, but it is still rough, Vader’s emotion still pushing him to dangerous extremes. Wilhuff tries to reclaim his hand, tugging backwards, and it is only after a protracted minute of silence that Vader releases him.

It is at that moment that Wilhuff becomes aware of a sharp, insistent pain in his temples, pressing in as if a needle is driving into his brain. He does not usually complain of pain, and so he does not gasp in surprise, but the sudden intensity makes him falter slightly. Vader is not merely a Jedi-hunter, and is not merely a Dark Lord of some unknown Sith, but he is _dangerous_ , and Wilhuff is beginning to realize that even men like him, even men trained by the darkest, roughest portions of the galaxy, can be prey to something or someone _bigger_ —

“You’ve been _trained_.” Vader hisses, his voice deep behind the mask, and Wilhuff does gasp this time as the pressure disappears as suddenly as it began. He takes another step back, reaching up to feel at his throat (is it warm? It’s too warm, too _close_ in here, and Vader is still staring) and he is ready to make his excuses and run when another voice interrupts them.

**“ _Vader_.” **

Vader stands taller at the invocation of his name, and Wilhuff can see his hand twitch before the hologram of Emperor Palpatine is displayed in the center of the room. The hologram is enormous, swallowing more than half of the room, and Wilhuff can do little but nod his salute as Palpatine smiles.

“You do your moff a disservice.” Palpatine chides, and Wilhuff watches as Vader takes another step back.

“Master.”

“You have no reason to suspect him of treachery. This kind of fumbling is beneath you.”

“He has no reason to know of my movements. The movements of—our plans.”

“And he has not _asked_ you about such things.”

“He referenced our conversation!”

“Because he is _perceptive_ , Lord Vader, not because he is a Jedi in disguise. You think I would accept him into our Empire, appoint him one of my closest agents, if I had any reason to suspect him? There exist abilities and skills in this galaxy outside the mere binary of the Force. Wilhuff Tarkin is one of the preeminent examples of a non-Jedi who possesses the necessary willpower to do what needs to be done, and still understand the positions and perspectives of those around him.”

Wilhuff has recovered enough by this point to nod gratefully, adjusting his collar. “Thank you, my Emperor.”

Palpatine smiles again, his eyes still hidden by his cowl. “Tell him the things of which we spoke, Lord Vader. Tell him why you stopped. Tell him why you hunt the Jedi, and why they try to call out to you. Tell him about your _dreams_.”

Even with the mask, Wilhuff can see how Vader quails at this notion, and the idea rips at something inside him. Palpatine’s grin is, if anything, even wider now, and Wilhuff tries to step forward.

“Lord Vader, it isn’t necessary—”

“Wilhuff, don’t let yourself give into the fear. Vader has more to lose from this than you do.”

“I have no reason to—“

“Consider, then, that this is not for your _education_ , Governor Tarkin. My apprentice has his own needs that must be curbed.” With that, the hologram disappears, dropping them into darkness while Vader manages to catch his breath. There is silence for a long moment, the sound of breathing loud in Wilhuff’s ear, and he finally gathers his strength.

“He is still listening.” Vader intones flatly. “My master.”

“What of it. I have nothing to say to you that I wouldn’t say before him.” Wilhuff keeps the sarcasm from his tone, but he regrets the words as soon as they’re said. He does not _want_ to play the politician with Vader: he deserves better than that. But even as he’s considering an apology, Vader is sitting again, cross-legged on his seat as he stares at the floor.

“I was once a Jedi.”

“Yes.”

“I believed as they did, trusted their tenets, relied entirely on the strength of their Order to sustain me. I was…happy.”

Wilhuff shrugs, but it is clear that Vader cannot accept this so casually. It takes him several moments to continue, one hand clenching and unclenching reflexively.

“I betrayed the Jedi. I led the clone troopers to their Temple, slaughtered them where they stood—the beings that had been my siblings. My task is the same as it has always been: to wipe the Jedi from the galaxy, and ensure that they can never return.”

Wilhuff blinks, unsure of what he is meant to do. “And?”

“And that is why I hunt them. That is why they know me. My access to the Force, my knowledge of their methods—it comes from this.”

Wilhuff narrows his eyes, thinking, and steps forward into the light surrounding Vader’s meditation seat. Vader looks up in surprise, but is not fast enough to prevent Wilhuff from grasping the edges of his mask and pulling it away. Wilhuff is surprised to find that the mechanisms are quite simple, and he holds the full helmet in both hands to stare at Vader’s unmasked face. Without the barrier, Vader is as vulnerable as he should be, the pressure of his emotion welling behind his eyes. Wilhuff is impressed, though he cannot take the time now to decide whether he is merely impressed by the physical beauty of the man, or by the evident anguish in him, a rupture so cleverly hidden from the galaxy.

Wilhuff cannot pretend to understand what it is that binds Vader to Emperor Palpatine. The title of ‘master’, the label of ‘apprentice’—these have never appealed to him, even if they were stripped of their sinister trappings of the Sith. What he can understand, if only partially, is that Vader has sunk into his conflict, swallowed by it like a ship falling past the event horizon, and it lends him his strength to face the Jedi and win.

“You think you have crossed some line, broken some…universal law by betraying them. Your connection to them is still there, though now twisted.” Wilhuff blinks, tilting his head. “You think you’re different for that?”

“I—” Vader lurches forward, but Wilhuff takes a step back, keeping a hold of the helmet with both hands.

“There is a painting on the wall of my family home, a copy of another version held in our capital city. It displays Eteo Tharkyn, one of our early Eriadu heroes, climbing one of the cliffs above the newly established settlement, with the datapads and transmitters from the colony below bundled in his pack.”

“Governor Tarkin, I do not need a lecture on—”

“It’s been adapted into a play, I believe. I have some of the music from the performed suite.” Wilhuff hums to himself, enjoying the new dimensions of this game. “Eteo stole the most vital components of communication from the colonists and dumped them on the mountain. They were ready to kill him for that. Some did die, because they couldn’t summon help.”

“He betrayed them.”

“He did what was necessary to help the colony succeed.” Wilhuff emphasizes, gathering his strength. “It was a betrayal, yes. But my family has always recognized the need for the strong to realize their true power: not to coddle the weak, but to cull them, pushing them. My great-grandfather idolized Eteo for his commitment to his ideals, even in the face of overwhelming disapproval and violence.”

“Governor—”

“I am not an expert on the Jedi. I cannot say definitively whether what you did is justified, or right, or good. But the Jedi are an enemy to our Empire. And if their teachings failed to convince _you_ , their own child, the very heir to their legacy, then I see no reason why I should think any differently.”

Vader is quiet again, sitting back on his seat. “You presume to say you’d do the same, in my situation.”

“Haven’t I done just that? You’ve heard the transmissions, the accusations, from the men who served under Dooku. They claim that I have betrayed them, or that I’ve betrayed the Republic—or sometimes both. ‘Betrayal’ is such an interpersonal word, but the workings of politics do not care about promises or assurances. Pithy rhetoric must give way to harsh realities. The Jedi failed. The Jedi fell. If it had not been you, it would have been another.”

Vader blinks, inhaling slowly. “Dooku. Dooku was a former Jedi.”

“Was he?” Wilhuff shrugs, stepping forward again. “He never made reference to them that way. Then again, he never displayed his anger the way—”

“The way I do.” Vader is grim, reclaiming his helmet from Wilhuff’s grip.

“Dooku still believed the Jedi could be reasoned with.” The voice comes again, deep and invisible as it surrounds them. “As he believed the Republic, as a whole, could be reasoned with. A noble goal, perhaps, but as you say, an ultimately useless and futile one.”

Wilhuff allows himself the proud smile of success, bolstered by Palpatine’s assurance. “My Emperor, may I ask a favor?”

“You have earned it, Wilhuff.” For the first time, Palpatine’s voice holds the hint of warmth, and Wilhuff glories in it. Such a small thing, this token—and yet from the Emperor of the galaxy, it means much.

“Certainly Vader and I may be trusted to continue this conversation in private. Your insight is, as always, piercing, but you need not worry yourself with our gossip. We shall return to Eriadu, and our work will continue.”

“A favor.” Palpatine hums. “An interesting request, Governor.” Wilhuff waits, knowing better than to argue his perspective, and finally the voice resumes. “It is granted. I do need to see you again soon, however, Wilhuff. It seems much has changed since we last saw one another.”

“Of course.” Wilhuff waits, listening for the click of disconnect, and looks to Vader at last. Vader offers a small shrug, checking the interior of his helmet, then finally exhales to set his helmet aside.

“An odd request.”

“It is good that we can enjoy such closeness with our Emperor, but I don’t want to waste his time with conversations he has likely heard before.”

“You believe—that is, you presume that he and I have discussed such things before.”

“’Such things’? Vader, unless I am very much mistaken, our Emperor is the motivating force behind your betrayal of the Jedi, and his relationship to you is much more than that of a superior ordering a lackey.” Wilhuff holds up a hand, preventing Vader from interrupting. “Notice that I choose not to ask questions about it. The details are not my concern, and lie outside of my purview. You do not, and _should_ not, need to tell me or ‘reassure me’ or give me needless details of your connection to Palpatine just to justify your work here.”

Vader watches Wilhuff closely, and Wilhuff worries that he may have overstepped his boundaries, when Vader offers a crooked half-smile.

“You aren’t afraid of me.”

“I _was_ afraid of you. Briefly.” Wilhuff hesitates, then considers him again. “You tried to determine whether or not I was a Jedi. _That_ was frightening.”

“Ah. That.”

“You thought I had been trained?”

Vader raises a hand, waving away the concern. “With access to the Force, there comes some access to the minds of most beings. Intelligent beings, with a strong will, may resist such intrusion.”

Wilhuff smiles, flattered for the second time that day. “And you thought I had been _trained_ to resist such intrusion?”

“I was out of line.”

“I resisted your insight so much you thought I had been—”

“There is no need to _linger_ on the idea, Governor Tarkin.”

Wilhuff laughs aloud, folding his arms over his chest. “Haven’t you dealt with politicians before? Surely not all of them are so weak and flimsy that a mere glance would reveal their secrets.”

“Well, no. I was not thinking clearly.”

“Ah. True.” Wilhuff nods, stepping forward to reach out and touch Vader’s chin. Without the mask, he can feel the soft warmth of the man’s skin, and Wilhuff forces himself not to linger too much on the idea. “The entire reason I came here, after all, was…”

“My perceived uncertainty.” Vader clarifies, making no movement to shoo Wilhuff away. “It is not usual that others seek me out to ask about such uncertainties.”

“Not your commanders?”

“Those occasions are rare.” Vader acknowledges. “I should thank you. For taking the time to even think of me.”

“You are my co-commander. And this last investigation was clearly taxing.”

“Interacting with a Jedi is not easy. They use the Force to their fullest advantage, in ways that other combatants do not.”

“Well, that just indicates why the Empire needs you. You are the only one with the necessary skills, the necessary experience.” Wilhuff nods. “You heard the Emperor. I have my skills. It stands to reason that you have yours.”

“You were being so complementary.” Vader says softly, earning another amused laugh from Wilhuff.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, _of course_ you have your skills.” Wilhuff brings up his other hand, cupping Vader’s head with both hands, and lets his smile fade. “Do not let the Jedi distract you.”

“I will not be distracted.”

“Conflict can be good. Conflict can even be healthy. But I would not see you…waylaid by meaningless worries.” Wilhuff exhales slowly, meeting Vader’s eyes, and finally releases the other man to back away. He feels that there is more to say, more that can be said, but it is now that his nerve finally fails him. Wilhuff turns, leaving the room at last, and emerges back into the hallway of the administrative level to try and dismiss the tension built up in his nerves. He is not _nervous_. There is nothing to be concerned about.

But the image of Vader, maskless, facing him with the full weight of his worries, is not an image Wilhuff will forget quickly.


	10. Homebodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-chapter that deviates a bit from the main story. As I've told others, I love slowburn, but I can't be trusted to write it well.

“ _Wilhuff_ , dearest. You need to have the olive, don’t you. Isn’t that what the uniforms are, now? The pictures are not very flattering—you need to work with your lines.” The woman is tall, only a few inches shorter than Wilhuff himself, and she brushes his shoulders with a precise calm. Her hair has been elegantly braided around the side of her head, a shorter braid that befits her age, and her perfume smells faintly of jasmine and native grasses. Wilhuff reaches up to push away her hands, shaking his head, and lifts out a vest from his travel case to ignore her advice.

“Mother, I don’t wear the olive. I’m allowed to wear gray.” Running his hand over another portion of the case, Wilhuff nods to feel the tiny bumps of cuff links and pins.

“You need to prove that you can look the part, at least. It’s _Coruscant_. There will be thousands of images, and I’m sure Rina can pick them up and reuse them another time.”

“Blue is better. The purple and maroon are more durable, and I need to include Eriadu’s colors.”

“You don’t need to include them on _every_ outfit. You are a moff now.” Her voice softens as she watches him, lowering it to a soft murmur. “You are beholden to a sector, not merely a planet.”

Wilhuff sighs, meeting Miretara Tarkin’s gaze for the first time. She is right, of course—she’s always right. But it isn’t a subject they’ve often discussed.

“I still come from Eriadu. The trends on Coruscant usually require some sort of acknowledgement.”

“You were the first to tell us that things are changing. You cannot allow yourself to reflect any favoritism towards our home planet.”

“Mother, I’ve proved my fairness over and over. The people of Seswenna realize that we’re all working towards the same goals. You’ve been there, you know what they’re like. It isn’t so hard.”

“Yes, but the people of _Coruscant_ don’t know that yet. I won’t have you accused of disloyalty by some Mid-Rim hack journalist!”

“Then we’ll simply sic Rina on them and invite them home for a chat.” Wilhuff grins sharply, turning partially to find Rina herself rolling her eyes. “I know you’ve been bored.”

“Mixing with politicians outside of Eriadu is not my idea of a good time.” Rina says, studying the back of her hand.

“Children, children, let’s not fight.” Miretara spreads her arms wide, accommodating them both in her gaze. “Wilhuff, really, your staff is still woefully underprepared to escort you to Coruscant—”

“I have a security escort and a very capable lieutenant.” Wilhuff reassures her, reaching up to grasp her forearm. “This sort of planning—all this, for the galas and balls and plays—this is not usually in my line of work. I’m happy to do it, of course, and I _promise_ that I will save you the playbills, but I’m technically a military commander now. Even a tunic in a different color is enough to earn the appreciation of most visitors.”

“We do not cater to ‘most’, Wilhuff, we need to cater to ‘all’.” Miretara sighs, nodding as she pats his shoulder again. “But I will trust that you have this in hand.”

“I _do_ ¸ Mother. Thank you.” Wilhuff moves to kiss her cheek, letting her move past him as he replaces one of the tunics in his case. There is a moment of strained silence, as Miretara exits the room and leaves the two younger Tarkins alone, before Rina scuffs a shoe against the floor.

“You have a security escort.”

“You saw him—the big man in black. Darth Vader. He commands the ship that’s been my transport for the past months.”

“And they already found you an aide?”

“I am a _moff_ , Tin-a-rin, as I’m sure you’ve heard _ad nauseum_ ever since the appointment. Apparently I cannot be a moff without an aide. Lieutenant Cass. He knows more about the military operations than I do, and Vader handles the on-ground movements. It’s a good arrangement.”

Rina steps closer, keeping her arms folded as she watches Wilhuff smoothing his clothing. “Wilhuff.”

“Rina.” Wilhuff raises an eyebrow, studying her. “Wait, are you _upset_ with me? Because I didn’t take you along?”

“It’s been months, Wilhuff, very very long months with only your mother and Cousin Nief for company. And you know Nief isn’t really even a Tarkin.”

“Uncle Jova is still—”

“Uncle Jova is practically a hermit, for how little he leaves the sanctuary.” Rina scoffs. “My skills are useful for you. I realize the Empire changed things, but—”

“Rina, I was grandfathered into the Imperial military based on my civilian status. My association with Emperor Palpatine was a benefit, but my status was a factor. I can’t bring along the entire administrative network of Eriadu simply because they work well with me.”

“I am not asking for your _nepotism_ , Wilhuff, but some consideration would be nice.” Rina glances into the case, letting him fasten the clasps and pack it down. “You’re taking the pienar pin.”

“Yes.” Wilhuff lowers his voice, furrowing his brow. “I have to.”

“I know, Wilhuff.” Rina sighs again, her frustration twisting her voice. “No one outside of Eriadu will recognize it.”

“That is my point.”

“Your mother wouldn't focus on colors if you told her you were taking the pin.”  

“My mother’s involvement with whether or not I wear the pin is not your concern. It is not _her_ concern. It is my concern, and only mine, because no one else in this family—”

“ _Wilhuff_.” Rina stands taller, her spine stiff. “We don’t _care_ about your partners. Your parents have never cared what you did romantically, and we were all proud of you for wearing the pin. I’m grateful that you never tried to use it as a political point, and I’m even more grateful that you never forced me to attend a wedding or advise you on tricky romantic woes. We are Tarkins. We do not waste our time worrying about those kinds of things.”

“Rina—”

“Your mother advises you on clothing because you chose to appear in public. If you are going to represent us, if you are going to represent _Eriadu_ , then she expects you to provide a decent image. Palpatine may not care, but the galaxy will not ignore your _faux pas_ so easily. I don’t _care_ if you choose to hire me or not. I don’t care if you don’t want me in your administration. But if the galaxy is changing, then I need to change with it. You have elevated Eriadu, just as everyone hoped, but that doesn’t mean I can sail into the Senate building and expect to be noticed. I have been _loyal_. I have been _patient_. I have been effective, if I dare say so, and just because I don’t have a public presence doesn’t mean I will be happy to sit in the shadows forever.”

Wilhuff blinks, watching as Rina tenses. “Rina.”

“I’m not…jealous. I assure you.”

“You want to leave Eriadu too.”

“I would like to. But if you need me here, I will remain. But when you’re off-planet so long, we aren’t given much direction.”

Wilhuff sighs, leaving his case to move to Rina and grasp her by the shoulders. “You are a Tarkin.”

“If nothing else, I’d like to see what you accomplish.”

“I haven’t been very consistent with my communications, have I.”

“It was easier when you worked here. Your mother won’t say it, but we miss you.”

Wilhuff smiles, nodding firmly. “Well. Do not consider this a promise, but I’m sure there are a few positions for which your skills are most suited. It will be easier for me to coordinate on Coruscant. Again, no promises—but your concerns have been noted, your issues bulleted, and your docket commended. Expect to hear from me as soon as I return to Eriadu.”

Rina breaks into a smile, laughing aloud as she nods. “Very well, Moff Wilhuff. I await your orders.”

“Excellent. The Empire will flourish, with our careful handling.”

Rina backs away, still smiling widely, and shakes her head. “Good to know that your time away hasn’t dulled your senses entirely.”

“I am still a politician, Rina. I must be sensitive to the needs of my people.”

“And your family?”

“I suppose I can spare some consideration for them.”

“Good.” Rina nods, turning at last to go. “And I’ll want to hear more about this ‘Vader’. He’s been escorting you around the galaxy, and I haven’t found anything on him. I’ll need those details.”

“We’ll see.” Wilhuff says, watching her leave at last. Rina is not suited for politics—she has never prided herself on communicating clearly, nor on finding the best and most descriptive words. She hates listening to speeches, though Wilhuff has forced her to do so for the last five years in filtering his speech recordings. But she is a Tarkin. She has faced Jova, traveled the plains, and emerged with the hardness to face the galaxy. The Empire will need people like her, people like _them_.

And perhaps there is value in having her closer, if only to seek her advice on occasion. She is no Palpatine, but she is older. She knows about Wilhuff’s difficulties in parsing romantic partners and political fortune-seekers. And she will accept any insights Wilhuff might offer, without questioning his methods.

Yes, Rina will need to leave Eriadu too.

But first—Wilhuff is going to Coruscant.


	11. Chapter 11

The benefit of Coruscant is its skyline, its mass of information and people. No matter who you are or where you come from, Coruscant is the place to _accomplish_ things. Wilhuff can do more in a few hours than he could do in an entire month back on Eriadu, and with the benefit of actually storming into an office or two if the situation requires it. This has always been the challenge for Outer Rim representatives, communicating their needs effectively when so far away from the center of power. However, Wilhuff has found himself adjusting quickly to the quick pace of the capital planet, and with Vader accompanying him, there is little to stand in his way.

The initial meetings were short, almost perfunctory. Wilhuff slipped easily into his usual political attitude, standing aloof from the general proceedings while engaging more seriously with individual conversations. He notes that many of the other moffs are not military men—there are businessmen and engineers he recognizes, as well as a few men he vaguely remembers as planetary governors. Their experiences are not equal, however, and he finds no common thread to link their appointment as “moff”. Some men had simply been in the right place at the right time—and some aren’t quite sure what to do with their power.

It is an odd moment, when they have a short recess and the moffs move as one into a waiting anteroom. Though the Empire has dissolved many of the Republic’s formalities and festivities, the rooms on Coruscant still have the touch of elegance conferred by their designers. Wilhuff quietly appreciates the sleek silver and gently curved seats, and smiles to himself as the faintest strains of sung chords echo through the space.

Vader is here too, though clearly only as a watchdog, the role Wilhuff feels does not properly address his position. The other moffs do not know how to handle him, and they eye him with suspicion. Of course, they cannot be expected to welcome someone so visibly different, so clearly designed to intimidate. All of these dignitaries have carried out their threats more subtly, without the need for armor or masks or the _posturing_ Vader adopts. Wilhuff flatters himself to believe that he knows Vader needs no armor, and that his ‘posturing’ is nothing more than the casual assurance of a man who has real claim to the power he wields, but Vader remains an outsider. He does not belong.

“He was involved with the Trade Federation. Palpatine pointed him out to me, back then. He hasn’t aged well.” Wilhuff keeps his tone light, but moves to Vader’s side as he nods to a moff across the room. “Strange to think he’d be in charge of a sector.”

Vader says nothing, but his head turns slightly to acknowledge Wilhuff’s presence. Wilhuff accepts this as enough encouragement, and turns to position himself beside Vader. The solid presence beside him is reassuring, and he thrills to think of what it might mean. Does everyone here know who Vader is? Do they know that he claims the title “Sith”?

Might some here know _more_ than Wilhuff does?

He lets the thought pass, blinking as he nods to another moff. There has been so little time to learn everyone’s name, or their roles—but it is not so different from Corulag. Here a Trade Federation convert, here a former mining operator.

“Well. One of the Outer Rim Tarkins, isn’t it? You looked familiar.” A younger man, perhaps only a year or two younger than Wilhuff, steps forward as he watches Vader, clearly preoccupied. “You have a companion?”

“Moff Tarkin has been a guest on my ship while I patrol the Outer Rim.” Vader breaks in, surprising Wilhuff. “His presence is necessary to ensure that administrative control is maintained in high-risk areas.”

“Ah. A problem we don’t face in the Mid-Rim.” The man smiles, the easy smile of a career politician, and Wilhuff can feel his ire rise. The man may be baiting him—but he still believes in the truth of his comment.

“We all have our own challenges to face.” Wilhuff responds quietly, giving the man his chance to back down serenely. He may be offensive, but perhaps the man is merely an idiot. Even idiots deserve their chance.

“It is one thing to maintain control of a sector, certainly, but wasting resources on a fringe system is hardly worth the Empire’s time.” The man shrugs, finally holding out a hand. “Moff Lehrennan. I don’t know if you’ve kept pace with the Banking Clans, but there’s been some interesting investments lately. The Emperor apparently chooses to play fast and loose with Republic assets.”

“I would think the Emperor is entitled to that, when the Republic no longer exists.” Wilhuff drops his voice in both volume and tone, keeping his hands behind his back as the man lowers his own arm. “Do you know the meaning of the term, Lehrennan? ‘Emperor’? It’s a much simpler title than ‘Chancellor’, more elegant in design and execution. But ah, I overstep myself—there’s no reason you would know anything about design.”

“The curve of an inflation prediction is the only aesthetic I need, Moff Tarkin.” Lehrennan is somewhat more abashed, but he does not step back nor look away from Wilhuff’s gaze. The man responds to any criticism with resistance, not with fear. This is a useful trait, but not if he uses it to stand in Wilhuff’s path.

“The movements of credits and debts. I trust you’re well acquainted with the plans of the Banking Clans?”

“The Munns don’t often welcome outsiders into their circles, but I have my contacts.” Lehrennan spreads his arms wide, allowing himself a smile. “One would think that they know the future, with how complex their graphs can be.”

“I know we have a miner, an engineer, and now to have a banker? It seems the fate of the Empire sits comfortably in the hands of guildsmen.” Wilhuff matches the smile, watching Lehrennan trying to determine whether the comment is an insult.

“You would question the Emperor’s judgement?”

“As much as you seem to question his financial decisions.”

“I, at least, am _qualified_ to decide what a sound financial decision might be.”

“And what happens when something more taxing—say, the negotiation of a minor legal clause—crosses your desk? Being appointed a moff is flattering, no doubt, but the Empire moves quickly. Keep pace, Moff Lehrennan.”

“As if dallying on the Outer Rim is any indication of a man’s worth—”

“He is a _moff_.” Vader speaks again, surprising both men with the force of his words. Wilhuff can feel his body tensing in anticipation, though whether it is from fear of action or merely fear at Vader’s tone, he cannot tell. “A rank, in case you forgot, you were also given. The Emperor does not make his choices blindly. You serve his will, acting as extensions of his power, and it is _only_ his power that gives you legitimacy. Do not presume that your appointment is mere maneuvering, or that it will sustain you through your blunders.”

“Lord Vader.” Wilhuff clears his throat to make himself heard, angling himself between Vader and Lehrennan. He surprises himself with the intensity of his interest, Vader's voice and menace and threatening presence more enticing than any soft words or gentle smiles, but this is not the time nor the place. Vader needs to learn the rules of this game. These men will not respond to outright terror.

“Threats and sly words are meaningless, Tarkin. You shouldn’t need a guard dog to make your points—”

“Lord Vader is here on his own power and under the Emperor’s guidance. And the Emperor’s _alone_.” Wilhuff faces the other man, keeping his voice steady despite his irritation. Softly, silently, that is how he will unsettle this moff. “I have no say in his assignments or his actions. If you’d care to look, all of Vader’s movements have been initiated on his own power, and his own clearance. Not mine.”

Wilhuff can see the other man tensing, and knows that he has won. Not right now, and perhaps not for some time, but Lehrennan can be made to lose control. And once he has done that, Wilhuff knows he will fail. Wilhuff can be patient. Palpatine had taught him that early, forcing him to read the epic poems of Naboo and Mandalore, poring over pages and pages of monologues and descriptive couplets. The heroes were never simple men and women, but struggled, fought, shaping themselves to meet their challenges and learning the patience to watch their enemies fail. Time was their weapon, and Wilhuff has kept it ready in his arsenal.

“Lord Vader.” Another man interrupts, and immediately Wilhuff can feel the dark tension fade from their group. Lehrennan is backing away, his hands at his sides, and Wilhuff studies their new companion with a careful eye. The man is stern, much like Wilhuff himself, but his eyes are dark and there are clear signs of fatigue. Already, it seems, the Empire has requested much of him. “Are we to expect you at the Defense meetings, also?”

“I will be there, Moff Balfour.” Vader nods deeply, his earlier menace fading into a more congenial tone. “I congratulate you on the recent advances in lane security—I look forward to reading your reports on the pirate movements in the area.”

“Of course, Lord Vader.” Balfour holds himself with an easy assurance, nothing like Lehrennan’s new tension, and Wilhuff backs away to watch Vader speak. Lehrennan has been ignored like the puppy he is, and it _angers_ him more than Wilhuff’s veiled insults. Oh, Wilhuff can play this game. Wilhuff _enjoys_ this game. Some moffs may feel more confident in their new position, with the strength of a full sector or hyperlane route, but Vader is right. Their mere appointment does not guarantee that Wilhuff has to be _nice_. He fully expects them to question him, and his authority, at every turn. It’s no different from what he’s faced for years already.

But that means he can question them in turn. He can challenge them, undermine them, pick apart their means and methods. They need to prove themselves. The Empire will never progress if the moffs allow each other to fall into complacency.

“Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.” Wilhuff recites, under his breath, proud to know how easily the words come to his lips. None of this is new. None of this posturing, or parading, or maneuvering is new. The galaxy has seen it before, and the plays and poems and fairy tales of dozens of planets testify to it. He has learned their lessons.

Now it only falls to the others to prove they’ve learned them too.

+++

Though dancing with the other moffs has its appeal, Wilhuff is more content to have the single invitation from Emperor Palpatine blinking on his commband. Palpatine does not move slowly. And yet he has invited Wilhuff to the opera, not to the official chambers of the Senate building, and Wilhuff chooses to dress the part. He has faced his opponents and emerged victorious for now, and so he arranges a slightly more archaic outfit: the high collar of Eriadu uniforms, with the clean lines of militaries across the galaxy, and the blue that emphasizes his eyes. Coruscant demands a spectacle, and so he accepts the deeper cuffs, the elegant belt, and flared pants that cover his boots. Cass is not here to arrange his belongings, and so Wilhuff takes the time to check himself twice and thrice over in his mirror.

When he arrives at the opera, he realizes that most of his preparation is for naught. Palpatine no longer dresses as he used to, and Wilhuff does not need to compete for attention. Beside Palpatine’s black, almost shapeless mass, Wilhuff looks almost like any other Coruscant dandy, though his proximity to Palpatine certainly sets him apart. The guards beside Palpatine are markedly different, surprising Wilhuff with their clear strength and power—and their helmets hide their face, reminding him of Vader.

Reminding him _uncomfortably_ of Vader.

They say nothing, and so he does not engage them in conversation. They simply move in behind him when he enters the box, and he accepts the seat when Palpatine offers it. And then.

He _listens._

The opera itself is not one he’s overly familiar with. It has none of the trauma of frontier productions, and so Wilhuff assumes it is Coruscanti in origin, but the features of the costumes, the focus on the natural—there are elements of Naboo, of Mon Calamari, even of Duros in the design. The actors are all human, but their features are exaggerated, heightened by tricks of the light. They play their parts.

As one character, then another, falls victim to a betrayer’s knife, Palpatine speaks for the first time. “I hope you do not mind this appointment, Wilhuff. It is good to see you.”

“My Emperor, wherever you go, I will be there.”

Palpatine laughs sharply at that, though not enough to disrupt the play. “You are impressive. Your time with Vader seems to have been instructive.”

“He is…interesting.” Wilhuff considers asking more, probing Vader’s past, but ignores the impulse. “I fear he has more to teach me than I can teach him.”

“Vader may not need the delicacies of politics, but he still needs your support. Even he cannot face the galaxy alone.”

Wilhuff is quiet for a moment, absorbing the truth of the statement. “He is still human, behind that mask. He has been given a great burden.”

“Steel can only be tempered in a fire, Wilhuff.” Palpatine does not have his smile any longer, and his hand has come to his chin in thought. “Do you pity him?”

“Pity? I would pity a rancor with a bad tooth sooner than pity Vader. He does not want my pity.”

“He may still be piteous.”

“No. No.” Wilhuff shakes his head. “Piteousness requires weakness. Vader is struggling, but there is never a risk of him failing. Even in failure, he would be spectacular.”

Palpatine looks to him then, studying Wilhuff closely. “Would you want to work with him? To continue working with him, even if you were given a ship of your own?”

“It isn’t a question of ‘working’ with him, my Emperor, he is your tool. Just as I am your moff. I will go, and act, as you send me.”

“Oh, Wilhuff, I’ve trained you too well.” Palpatine sighs. “I know how you struggled on Coruscant. Those early years are easy for no man, or woman, or being. You can admit to loneliness.”

“My Emperor, I don’t understand—”

“ _Watch_ , Wilhuff. Watch and see.” Palpatine gestures to the stage, nodding as another character prepares to stab her former confidant in the heart. However, instead of matching the earlier betrayals, her attempted plot is foiled by the other being’s partner, wresting the knife from her hands to launch into a passionate rising aria. Guards begin to appear in the wings, intent on carrying out their leader’s murderous plan, but the two partners begin to stand tall in center stage, armed now with their own knives and back to back against the oncoming horde.

“Vader cannot face the galaxy alone. Neither can you.”

Wilhuff frowns, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Why did he choose the embroidered tunic, again?

“I don’t understand.”

“If you have designs on him, Wilhuff, speak now. I will not stand in your way.”

“Must I ask your _permission_ to interact with Vader naturally? Speak to him directly, as one man to another?”

“Vader is not a mere man. He is my apprentice. For any other member of Imperial staff, I would hesitate to intervene, but Vader is _mine_. I measure his conflicts and pace his trials. Your intervention, though not improper, could change things.”

“You have plans for him. You…you’re training him. As you did me?”

“I needed to do very little for you.” Palpatine smiles again, glancing to Wilhuff. “But Vader is more delicate. Stronger, for his occasional moments of doubt, but I cannot risk him falling away from the Imperial fold.”

“You think I would—”

“It is not who you are, Wilhuff, but what you might represent. Vader is known to invest himself. It is why he still agonizes over the Jedi, when he should be content to see them dead and gone.”

“Then I must make sure that I represent only the Empire.” Wilhuff’s head is spinning, perplexed by the dimensions Palpatine has lent this conversation. ‘What you might represent’? The concept is absurd.

“And you would be happy with that?”

Wilhuff blinks. “Of course, my Emperor.”

Palpatine faces him, ignoring the play completely. “Vader’s last love distracted him from the Jedi and brought him to me. I must ensure that you do not distract him from me and lead him elsewhere.”

Wilhuff exhales slowly, sitting up. “You flatter me, to think that I could be so great a danger—”

“I _know_ you, Wilhuff, I _created_ you.” Palpatine hisses between bared teeth, sending a shock down Wilhuff’s spine. “You may have your private moments with Vader. But I will be watching you closely. I am always first in his mind, always the lodestone against which he measures his success. You may help him. You may make him stronger. But you and he are complex beings, and I cannot waste my time monitoring you both if you choose to diverge.”

Wilhuff blinks again, repressing the mounting fear as he studies Palpatine. “I do not need to be threatened, my Emperor. The Empire is the culmination of everything you’d spoken of, everything we’d discussed, and you—you alone hold the ability to manage it all. If Vader, or myself, tried to break away from that—the galaxy would return to chaos. Better your strong hand than the indiscriminate, free wheel of chaos.”

Palpatine is quiet for a long moment, letting the music surround them again. Wilhuff takes a breath, gathering his energy, and freezes in surprise as Palpatine reaches out to grasp his chin. Palpatine’s nails are like claws, digging into his skin, and Wilhuff dares not move as a creeping rictus takes hold of him.

“Relax, Wilhuff. I cannot do this if you _resist_.” Palpatine tilts Wilhuff’s head up, and Wilhuff closes his eyes to concentrate as a sharp pain pierces him, then fades.

It is a lifetime before Palpatine releases him, allowing him to take a breath again. Wilhuff tries to grasp onto his seat, regaining his bearings, and shakes himself once to make sure that he is still present and whole.

“You have matured, Wilhuff. I’d forgotten—” Palpatine stops himself, leaning back in his seat. “Go to Vader, then. It is so rare to find someone with your strength. Please excuse us—Vader and myself. Our abilities can be frightening. But there is no danger to you, or to anyone who understands our goals.”

Wilhuff breathes deeply, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair before turning again to the play. The two partners, having overcome their traitorous guards, have returned to their seat of power, and stand together as they draft a new speech. They make promises, dedications of loyalty to each other and to the new government they establish. Despite his distraction, Wilhuff is impressed. A good leader is, in ways, married to the population he leads. To have dedication, resolution, firmness of will and similarity of purpose—it is romantic, despite the relative lack of romantic focus throughout the production.

And Palpatine has instructed him to seek out Vader.

“Am I to have a ship?” Wilhuff says, surprising himself with the question. Palpatine makes no immediate movement to agree or disagree, but nods after a long moment.

“There has been progress with the Star Destroyers. As long as Vader is needed near Seswenna, your assignment was not a pressing concern, but you will need mobility of your own. Would you want to choose the name?”

Wilhuff considers the idea, relaxing into his seat as the opera reaches its conclusion. “Give me some time to review the options. One does not name a ship lightly.”

“It is good to know you take this so seriously, Wilhuff.” Palpatine’s voice is proud, strong and confident despite his age. Wilhuff is in turn comforted by the tone, indebted to the man who has challenged him and brought him this far. He does not lie when he thanks Palpatine for his position, or his strength, or his abilities.

And now Palpatine is granting him _Vader_.

Politics has always been a dangerous game. Introducing romantic attractions, or relationships beyond the merely professional, has always lent the game a new dimension. This is a challenge Wilhuff has faced only in small increments before, and never with so much at stake.

Wilhuff will need to tread carefully. But if Vader is his reward, then the challenge is welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilhuff quotes Richard III, Act 5 Scene 3 (line 3826), "Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law."
> 
> Apologies if these are too fast: I hope the quality isn't changing, but I have to capitalize on inspiration as it comes.


	12. Chapter 12

Wilhuff does not seek to irritate Emperor Palpatine. He is content to wait, as he has for so long. But Palpatine hasn’t yet confirmed the delivery date of his Star Destroyer, and Wilhuff must keep himself busy. With so many moffs on Coruscant (well, more than one, which seems like ‘many’ when the office is barely a year old) he is awash in meetings and organizational committees, the admirals and commanders and captains and generals all lost in a blur as he rotates from building to building.

He is gratified when someone suggests a rotation out of the Inner Core, through Balfour’s hyperspace lanes, to demonstrate the reach of Imperial power. It may only reach through the Mid-Rim, but it will be instructive nonetheless. And if they happen to pass Corulag, so much the better.

Wilhuff takes it as a matter of course that Vader will accompany them. He has tried not to fall into the trap of assuming that Vader accompanies _him_ , since that was never clearly stated, and honestly, Vader likely has more important duties. But he enjoys the thought. The Emperor would choose to remain with his Council, sequestered on Coruscant. It is Vader who stands beside the moffs, watching them. Maintaining order.

Punishing them, if necessary.

Oh, Wilhuff has not yet seen Vader exercise his power that way. He has only seen Vader use the Force against a Jedi, and even then, the display was slightly less impressive than the actual fighting. But he has seen how Vader watches the moffs, himself included. Vader will not let them step out of line, even to discuss hypotheticals. Vader is a symbol of control.

And yet Wilhuff has seen how easily the mask is removed. Vader has told him his weaknesses, or at least presented them to Wilhuff, and Wilhuff is unsure what he is meant to do with the information. He is attracted to the man, yes. But he has been attracted to many men, some much more accessible than Vader, and he has always hesitated.

It was not advisable for young politicians to involve themselves romantically when trying to focus on their work. The pace of Coruscanti life was intensely fast, and any distraction could spell disaster. Wilhuff had forced himself to remain focused. Then on Eriadu, there had been some. Men his age, who’d accompanied him to the gallery openings and the operas. But Wilhuff has always felt the pressure of attention, the knowledge that anyone he chose to approach romantically would immediately come under the scrutiny of thousands of prying eyes. Choosing to love someone would mean choosing not to subject them to that kind of focus. It would be too much.

Wilhuff considers his parents, as he stands beside the viewports. The blur of hyperspace is disorienting, but it helps him to focus, much like the rush of traffic outside his office in Eriadu’s capital. It isn’t his office any longer—he’s left it behind. Rina had to dismantle all his carefully organized belongings. The building itself is little more than a tourist office now. He has removed the need for governorship, packing it along with him like another one of his uniforms. And yet with all that power, he has not found a solution to his problems.

Brenton Tarkin had never been governor. The Tarkins had used their money, their influence, in less visible ways for generations, coordinating the assignment of mining contracts or research projects in Eriadu’s universities. (Aunt Thea had been most eager about advancements in bacta production, and Wilhuff is slightly ashamed to realize how much trivia about bacta treatments still linger in his brain.) Miretara Tarkin had devoted her efforts to infiltrating Core interests, inserting her ‘people’ in the right positions, in just the right places, to hear and see everything. Wilhuff can only hope to match her skill in corporate espionage one day. For now, he has Rina, but her usefulness is limited on Eriadu. But he has heard whispers of another bureau, another organization flourishing like a mycelium colony beneath the soil of Republican sluggishness. He will not ask directly. But once he has a ship, it will be simply to place Rina where he needs her.

Wilhuff has never asked his parents directly about their relationship. That they loved him was clear: Brenton had pushed him, challenged him, and Miretara was always quick to defend him in the popular press, if it came to that. But they were not the kind of people to lavish affection on him, or on each other, and so it could seem that his parents lived two very separate lives. Their estate was large enough for each of them to have their own office, and should Brenton be especially busy, Wilhuff knew full well that his mother could go a full month or more without ever seeing her husband. How could love prosper there?

If he is given his own ship—if Vader is sent on other tasks, no longer tied to Wilhuff’s movements—could he encourage some sort of relationship, with such distance?

The Star Destroyer reverts from hyperspace with a lurch, prompting Wilhuff to turn and look into the command pit. There is a flurry of activity, some attempt at concealing the mishap, but Wilhuff knows not to involve himself. This is not his ship.

Nor is it Vader’s, for that matter.

It is a short walk to tactical meeting room, the viewports fully cleared to display the brilliantly green planet below. The other moffs nod in approval, watching as a squadron of fighters is deployed into a defensive formation around the Star Destroyer’s nose. Wilhuff is surprised to find another, darker-skinned man moving forward, standing beside Moff Balfour as they study the planet.

“A jewel, isn’t she. A shame we’ve seen such trouble—but the sector will be useful for the Empire yet.” The other man nods, folding his arms.

“Naboo is not an easy planet to rule, Moff Panaka. She looks peaceful from up here. But on the ground…” Balfour trails off, smiling easily. “Hence why I prefer my hyperspace lanes. None of those finicky little details.”

“Each to his strengths.” Wilhuff interjects, stepping forward to join the two. “I know Naboo was the center of the Trade Federation problems—has there been further trouble?”

“Our senators have been unruly.” Panaka smiles faintly, trying to offer a casual shrug. “Moff Tarkin, is it? I doubt all the intricacies of our political drama made it through the HoloNet. But our former queen, Senator Amidala, tried to resist our Emperor when he came to power. It was an unfortunate situation.”

“And you rule now?”

“I am the moff of the sector. Naboo retains a queen.” Panaka bows shortly in presumed modesty. “A ceremonial title, really, as it always has been. But it allows the people a figurehead, and they do so enjoy the costumes.”

“Ah! That must be—the Palace of Theed, isn’t it. I’d forgotten that was on Naboo.” Wilhuff hesitates, unsure if he’s said too much, but the appreciative nod from Panaka is enough to encourage him.

“I didn’t know you studied architecture, Moff Tarkin.”

“It is…a passing hobby. I mainly only examine public buildings.” Wilhuff shrugs, looking to Balfour. “My apologies.”

“What? No, no, this is interesting. Why public buildings?” Balfour nods eagerly, folding his hands behind his back. “I’ve studied shipyards and engineer works at length, but never civilian works.”

“You saw on Coruscant—the Senate building stands out from its surroundings.” Wilhuff uses both hands to gesture, mimicking the domed roof. “It shapes the space around it, just as much as it shapes the space within. By designing a single building, its architects have transformed what it means to participate in the Republic.”

“And now the Empire?”

“The beauty of Emperor Palpatine’s movements is that he holds no contradictions. The Senate building is now an extension of his own power, impressing itself on the landscape.”

“I’m afraid you’d find no such beauty in Naboo’s palaces.” Panaka sighs. “For all our efforts, Naboo commits herself to peace and subjugation more readily than determination or strength. The palace you mentioned is a testament of blending _into_ the landscape, even going so far as to accommodate the natives.”

“There is a time and a place for accommodation.” Wilhuff tries to mediate, nodding. “Yet your senator tried to resist, despite such architectural tendencies?”

“She was unwise.” Panaka raises a hand to wave the idea away. “I served under her, when she was still queen. She resisted the Trade Federation, and I was impressed to see such strength in one so young. I thought Naboo might finally earn its place. Then came the Clone Wars, and she remained committed to the Republic, even when our interests might have been better served by the Separatists—and then the war was over, almost in an instant, and the full depth of her treachery came to light. To think she would contest Chancellor Palpatine on so many occasions, fighting him for control when they were nearly brethren—”

“Palpatine knew her, then.”

“Quite well, in fact. He was senator when she was queen, then chancellor when she was senator.” Panaka holds up one hand, fingers crossed. “I was content to serve, then, but I was blind to her movements. She plotted with the Jedi, attempting to destroy us from within. My appointment as moff was an unexpected benefit of her treason, but I hope to prove myself worthy. With time.”

Wilhuff nods slowly, studying the planet again to reflect on this new information. Balfour is right: the planet does look beautiful from up here, serene and silent. Eriadu is not nearly so appealing, with rusty reds and mottled purple splotches like bruises marring the expanse of landmasses, but perhaps Wilhuff is the luckier moff. Eriadu’s environment has forced its people to be pragmatic. Perhaps it is Naboo’s elegance, her own inherent luxury, that prompted her senator to resist.

“It is unlikely that we will ever see a personality the likes of Senator Amidala.” The voice surprises all three men, coming from behind them to reflect the approach of Darth Vader. Unlike the tension evident in the posture of the other men, Wilhuff feels himself relaxing at the sound, turning to greet the Dark Lord with a nod.

“There may be much to learn from our enemies.”

“She could have been converted. There was nothing in her thinking that would have prevented her from understanding. She simply…refused to see.” Vader’s voice is oddly stern, and Wilhuff makes a note of this sequence of events to question later. If he could have a moment with Vader—

But this is unlikely. There are still planets to visit, still other conversations to have. And Vader will likely never be truly alone.

Panaka and Balfour are quiet, following Wilhuff’s gaze out to the planet. Vader’s presence is impossible to miss, but Wilhuff knows that this is not usual for him. Vader’s ease, the careful casual air they had both cultivated together—all that is gone. Wilhuff forces himself to ignore the loss, and instead focuses on the new information, letting it turn over in his head.

It is unlikely this data will be relevant. The minor treachery of a Mid-Rim senator is unlikely to affect him. But it reveals much about Panaka, and now it has revealed much about Vader—though _what_ , exactly, Wilhuff does not know.

“The loss of Amidala is a setback that can be easily overcome. Palpatine is intelligent—he does not dally with the past.”

“The past, Moff Panaka, is the thing which tells us about our future.” Vader responds with true anger, a sudden shock from his earlier coolness, and Wilhuff watches as he turns sharply to storm away. The man’s moods are nigh mercurial, and Wilhuff should be _angry_. He is forced to work beside a man with the emotional maturity of a child, demanding accommodation regardless of circumstances. Yet Wilhuff does not begrudge him this. Wilhuff cannot force himself to feel angry in return. Wilhuff knows that Vader is not simply reacting, he is reacting again and again to old hurts, old pain, and the depth there—

Well, Wilhuff cannot say he empathizes personally, but he knows how powerful the past can be. The histories are full of individuals, even entire groups, who were motived by the wrongs committed against them. He begins to understand Palpatine’s explanations, the presentation of Vader as delicate, yet strong, conflicted and torn yet constantly renewing himself in his strength.

Wilhuff steps back from the other moffs, nodding in farewell, and turns to follow Vader. Let them talk. Let them question his motives. They will learn the importance of Vader, as the years go on, and if he can earn Vader’s trust, then they will learn Wilhuff’s place.

And regardless of their opinions, Wilhuff will find more value in Vader’s conversation than in theirs.

==

Vader moves too quickly for Wilhuff to follow, and he slows his pace to wander the decks of the Star Destroyer more casually. Since they have reverted from hyperspace, his commband is active again with updates from the _Executor_ , and Wilhuff takes the opportunity to listen through them. It is menial information, though still useful, and Wilhuff starts composing responses as he steps into a communications bay.

A thought strikes him, and Wilhuff ignores his earlier decisions to open a direct link to Lieutenant Cass. (The man’s promotion did go through, more easily than Wilhuff expected, and he was pleased to find Cass appropriately grateful and even more dedicated in his efforts to help.) Cass, as always, answers immediately, and Wilhuff finds the sound of his voice oddly resolute in the center of this unfamiliar Star Destroyer.

“Lieutenant. Apologies for abandoning you.”

“Abandoned? Never, Moff—Governor Tarkin. The _Executor_ maintains orbit well enough on her own, and the men are happy to have shore leave.”

“You are allowed that chance too, Lieutenant. Don’t let my demands stop you.”

Wilhuff can hear the soft chuckle under Cass’s breath, the man’s humor oddly shaped by his military career. “And miss your calls in the middle of the night? Far be it from me.”

“Well, if you’ll permit me the impertinence, I do have a request. I don’t wish to muddy the data conduits on this Destroyer, and you’re plugged into the Coruscant datasphere anyway. What can you tell me about Senator Amidala?”

“The Naboo—yes. I can pull up something.” Cass hums once, the sound of movement barely audible over the comm. “I remember her. Involved quite heavily with the Separatist Crisis.”

Wilhuff laughs aloud, grinning as he sits at a console of his own. “You still call it that?”

“It was a crisis before the clones were introduced.” Cass sniffs, clearly refraining from exploring his true opinions, and Wilhuff lets the topic pass. “She made a lot of speeches, I remember that. Got herself caught on Geonosis when the clones arrived. Right as the Order—Order 66, I mean—was going out, she disappeared, there was a great deal of fuss about it. Ah, here.” Cass shifts again, maintaining his conversational tone. “She voted against the emergency powers movement, when the Emperor—Chancellor Palpatine, then—took power-”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of the fuss there. Do we know how she died? If she had a significant political following, it’s possible she has former allies worth investigating.”

“Oh. Governor Tarkin.” Cass’s ease is fading, his tone shifting. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew?” Wilhuff sits up, feeling an odd tension creep up his spine. “Cass, I’m just wondering—”

“Senator Amidala is not dead.” Again, the voice surprises him, and again, Wilhuff quietly curses the shock that strikes him. Vader has appeared from the shadows beside him, standing huge and monolithic beside Wilhuff’s seat, and Wilhuff is equally surprised by the statement as by the presence of Vader himself. After a brief moment of hesitation, Wilhuff reaches up to remove his commlink, offering a silent apology to Cass as he switches it off.

“Vader.”

“Moff Tarkin.” Vader’s tone is still stern and hard, with a dangerous edge. Wilhuff resists the urge to stand, and simply watches Vader evenly, trying to think.

“You knew she hadn’t died.”

“It is not common knowledge, but it is no secret.” Vader nods once. “Our efforts have been distracted, but she remains a topic of interest for me. It is possible, however unlikely, that she may return.”

“Is her personality so strong, her charisma so great, that she could mount some sort of revolution? Naboo is under Panaka’s control, and if she has no planetary base—”

“The nature of rebellion will change many times, Governor Tarkin. We are prepared to evolve with it.”

Wilhuff furrows his brows, tensing. “And was Emperor Palpatine planning to inform us moffs of this ‘evolution’ at any point? Or were we expected to simply foresee it? Challenging us is good enough, but expecting us to see the future—”

“You would have been informed. In time.”

“If Amidala is a significant threat, preparation is better than compensation.”

“She has fled. My concern with finding her is not a matter of full Imperial concern. It is my concern, and mine alone.”

Wilhuff opens his mouth to respond, but pauses as he thinks over Vader’s statement. At last, he finally stands, facing Vader in the muted light of the bay.

“So she isn’t a security risk.”

“It is possible. But no. I pursue her for…other reasons.”

Wilhuff blinks, a sudden thought piercing him. “You know her. Knew her. As a Jedi, you must have known her, she would have tried to convince you to revolt—”

“This is not a topic you need to concern yourself with.” Vader’s voice is less confident, and Wilhuff ignores the advice entirely, barreling ahead.

“You hunt the Jedi because you’re the only one who can. You knew them. You know their methods, their ways. And you hunt _her_ because you’re the—you _know_ her, you know something specific, or she knows you.”

Ah.

It’s as he feared.

Wilhuff has always tried to avoid melodrama. He knows that pain and loss are to be expected, and that expecting too much of others is always a risk. But Vader had been solid, had been strong, and they had—

No, Vader had only explained the Jedi to him because Wilhuff had insisted on following him to the fight. He had explained his own uncertainties only because Wilhuff had been in the right situations to see them. If Wilhuff had been anyone else, they would have heard that information in Wilhuff’s place.

There is nothing special about their interactions, professional or otherwise.

“Governor Tarkin, you should not concern yourself with—”

“Who is she to you?” Wilhuff knows that he should not ask, that this is not his place, and he does not want to know the answer. This may be why Vader is conflicted. This may be why he struggles, lost, alone.

Oh, Wilhuff was a _fool_ to think he could fix Vader so easily.

“Governor Tarkin.”

“No. No, forgive me, I overreach my bounds—”

“ _Wilhuff_.” Vader reaches out, grabbing Wilhuff’s upper arm as Wilhuff tries to move past him. The pressure of Vader’s attention is overwhelming now, just as it always is, but Wilhuff feels none of the menace from earlier. Vader’s grip is solid, but not painful. And Wilhuff stops.

“Lord Vader.”

“Amidala may have connections to other Jedi. The networks she fostered were close to their Temple.”

“And you have no other reason to find her.”

Vader hesitates, but he does not release Wilhuff, studying him. “I have my reasons.”

“Understood. Lord Vader, if you’ll permit me—”

“It is not because I feel anything toward her. We were. Partners.” Vader shivers visibly, and Wilhuff finds his anger shifting. It is difficult to be angry, when Vader is trying to explain himself honestly. “I loved her once. Or thought I loved her. But familiarity breeds contempt, and she began to believe too strongly in the Jedi, just as I began to realize the instability of their beliefs. My…support of Palpatine earned her hatred. I want to find her now for exactly the reasons I said, to ensure that she does not try to foster rebellion, but also to confirm that everything once good about her is now gone.”

“You loved her.”

“Yes. Once.”

Wilhuff nods, finally escaping from Vader’s grip to face him. “Thank you. You did not need to tell me.”

“To earn your suspicion would be a far worse fate.” Vader takes a step back, holding himself taut. “Trust me, if it came to a question of associating with you or with her, the decision is clear. My life is the Empire’s now. It belongs to the Emperor. She hates me, she hates the entirety of the Empire, and there is nothing left for me to love.”

Wilhuff takes a deep breath, trying not to let his assumptions overrun him. “And for someone who loves the Empire?”

“Well. The decision is clear.” Vader repeats, nodding shortly before leaving the room. Wilhuff finds his chest dangerously tense, his concern and worry and interest all mixing to leave him unsure and surprised. Vader had known Amidala. Vader is searching for Amidala. Vader had loved her, known her, and yet is now committed to the Empire.

And his commitment to Wilhuff?

Well, Wilhuff knows not to encourage himself too much. There is still too much at risk. He is too eager, too quick, when there is still so much uncertainty. He needs to pace himself.

But Vader had said—

No. No, this is not the time. Nor the place. There are meetings to hold. Conversations to have. There is much work to be done.

Wilhuff has an Empire to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHOO CHOO PROGRESSION TRAIN
> 
> I got a bit carried away in this chapter. I may have to go back and write other chapters non-chronologically, sprinkling them through the past chapters to fit them all together. Ah well!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its here, finally

Wilhuff has had much time to think. Coruscant was fast, almost too fast, but returning to Eriadu feels slow in comparison. It is nearly sluggish, with the traffic meandering serenely past the Tarkin household and his communications coming through at a delightfully thoughtful pace. He knows that the Star Destroyers are poised overhead, probably still rushing and bustling at their normal rush, but he prefers to focus on his duties here on the ground.

There is, after all, much for him to coordinate.

The gift of his new ship is a grandiose gesture, but not an unexpected one: he had debated naming her after a favorite heroine, or a particularly inspirational Tarkin ancestor, but a survey of the other Star Destroyers had revealed no such personal quirks. Though he regrets the missed opportunity, he knows that the _Intercessor_ will still be his ship. She will adopt his methods and practices. With time, she reflect him entirely. They are not merely a force to control or dominate, though it is important. He is part of an Empire that serves to save humanity from itself, corralling it and guiding it, pulling them away from mere chaos and disorder. To walk that line between despotism and culture, the fine definitions that separate mere power from true leadership, will be his goal.

The dedication speech practically writes itself, in fact. It’s given him more time to consider his wardrobe, avoiding his mother’s chastising gaze even as he lays out tunics, robes, and boots across his old quarters.

It is hard for him to consider the room ‘his’, any longer. Miretara has left it mostly untouched, since Wilhuff does return to use the room from time to time, but it feels like a better furnished apartment or hotel, much like his rooms on Coruscant. True, the walls are real wood, and not merely steel or plastisteel, but all the warm feelings about ‘home’ are lost on him. He loves the house, its grand stature and dominating presence. But he does not need to return, like a babe to the womb, and he would remain firmly fixed if the house itself was to burn. The materials are, in the end, immaterial. He has made himself just as much as this house, or his parents, or his great-uncle, have made him.

Still, there is some benefit to returning to Eriadu. He appreciates the consistency of Imperial uniforms, but escaping their confines is a nice break for a night or two. He had earned a reputation during his years as governor, refining his taste and sensitivities to reflect the high culture of Eriadu while appreciating its craftsmanship, and he has no plans to let his appreciation of their handiwork fade. A brocaded vest, with the silver threads catching the light, is his first choice, and it thus requires an undershirt, a jacket, and matching cuff links to display it to perfection. Fortunately, he does not need a belt, and he is pleased to find the most comfortable pants match easily with the colors of the jacket.

Some politicians prefer to have their clothes pre-chosen, arranged by their aides or other staff. Not only does Wilhuff find the concept absurd—choosing your own clothes is merely a mark of adulthood, not the trial of an expert clothier—he could hardly trouble Cass with this kind of work. Cass is a dutiful and loyal aide, but Wilhuff can just about imagine the look of despair on his face were Wilhuff to request his help. No, Cass has been granted a guest room, subject to Miretara’s evaluation but polite enough, clever enough, and stubborn enough to earn her approval. (The fact that he is from the Seswenna sector is a great help, though Miretara would never admit to such base favoritism.) Since it is an Imperial function, there is no _faux pas_ in having Cass arrive in uniform, if he chooses.

After all, Darth Vader will be in his usual dark black, regardless of the formality required.

Wilhuff lifts the vest to study it more closely as he considers Vader. Miretara had offered him a room too, and Wilhuff was surprised to hear that the man had actually accepted it. There had been brief meetings, almost chance occasions when the various members of the household had encountered Vader or Cass around the house, and Wilhuff tries not to linger on the thought. If his mother were to start waxing poetic about his abilities—or if, by the Siblings, Wilhuff’s father tried to engage them with politics—Wilhuff can just imagine the fallout. Fortunately, Cass’s introduction had gone smoothly, but Vader had barely said a word. Wilhuff cannot imagine anything making Vader uncomfortable, but his parents would have no reason to accept that Vader was as capable as Wilhuff claimed. They might be courteous, even respectful of Vader’s power, but without the discussions and verbal cues of good breeding or intelligence, the elder Tarkins would reserve their fuller affection for the men and women they knew best.

_That Dooku fellow—you can tell he was raised right. See how he carries himself?_

_We only want you to associate with people of your_ station _, Wilhuff. Those mining executives are all well and good for an afternoon in the boardroom, but you need to cultivate the right kinds of friends for your off-duty hours._

_There is a certain responsibility that comes with having power, and it isn’t the bickering and bartering these glorified rock salesmen think it is. No, every great family must hold itself to a higher standard. Not for our own good, but for the good of those around us._

_We give them something for which to strive, my son. You are not only a child of the Tarkins, but you are a child of Eriadu herself. Every citizen can find something to emulate in you—or they should._

_His family holds a castle, don’t they? A few, probably. Seswenna and Eriadu may have their difficulties, Wilhuff, but we are still siblings. It’s good to encourage such…familiar relations._

_You may not have the Count’s title, but you must show him that titles mean nothing here. It is all in your bearing. Your posture. And all that time you’d spent with Chancellor Palpatine—it shows fine taste._

_Keep the good wine out. Men of his caliber, they can tell._

_We only want what’s best for you, Wilhuff._

_We only want what’s best for Eriadu._

Wilhuff blinks in surprise, unsure of the new tension settling in his chest. If it were mere arousal, it would be one thing—a simple matter. Easily addressed. His memories of Dooku are still strong, especially in this house, preparing for an event like this.

He had been younger—only incrementally, but enough to matter. He had been less prepared. He had been more careful about associating with the right kind of people.

And Dooku had been the right kind of person.

_==_

The night is crisp and cool, with the warmth of summer fading as the faintest wind rushes through the open windows. None of the flowers are in their full bloom yet, but Wilhuff knows where they are, arranged in the capital’s impressive gardens. Lights are arranged in precise formations to illuminate walking paths and alcoves, and Wilhuff can see them splayed below him like a galaxy of their own.

A galaxy just for him. Oh, the thought.

“I must say, Governor Tarkin, your reception committee here on Eriadu certainly knows how to accommodate your less official guests.” The man’s voice is wry, with a soothing richness that coats the raw edges of Wilhuff’s nerves. Wilhuff turns partially to find Count Dooku approaching him, two glasses of amber whiskey in his hands, and accepts the offered glass to take a small sip.

“Trust me, Count Dooku, we would hardly be so careless as to broadcast the news of your arrival. You are a very special guest. We’re honored to have earned your attention.”

“Eriadu is poised—no, has _grasped_ the cusp of greatness. Under your guiding hand, Governor Tarkin.” Dooku moves languidly, like a feline pet on a couch, and Wilhuff does not stop him as Dooku reaches up to take Wilhuff’s hand. “It’s always a gamble, approaching the leaders of other worlds. One never quite knows what one is going to find.”

“Have you found disappointment in other places, Count Dooku?”

“Mm. Disappointment, yes. But Eriadu and Seswenna…we have so much to _offer_ each other. So much to provide. You’ve heard my arguments. My positions. Surely you can understand—”

“I have _heard_ your arguments, yes.” Wilhuff smiles, grasping Dooku’s hand to raise it into the light. Dooku matches Wilhuff’s smile easily, stepping closer. “I doubt there is much you could say now that you have not already said.”

“The work of our day was politics, Wilhuff. There is more to my repertoire than politics.”

“As I would hope there is in mine.”

“You’ve demonstrated your skill well enough. Men of power, like _us_ , we can recognize the value in each other. To make our measures, yes? So many planets put mere pretenders in command, leaving it to the one who wears the prettiest face or makes the most generous donations. So few people can recognize _real_ power.”

“You flatter me, Count Dooku.” Wilhuff can feel his mouth going dry, his heartrate rising as Dooku moves a thumb over Wilhuff’s knuckles. “You—”

“You do not need to speak if you do not wish, Wilhuff.” Dooku’s voice is almost hypnotic now, pricking warm bursts down Wilhuff’s spine. “Words are fine enough. But they express so little of who we are in truth.”

Wilhuff knows that it would be easy to make a mistake with Count Dooku. The man is powerful now, dizzyingly powerful, and the aroma of power is as heady as the whisky in their hands. Eriadu could do great things with the Separatists. But Dooku does not try to strong-arm Wilhuff into any undue arrangements, or presume that he could command Wilhuff’s loyalty. He has appealed to him as an equal. And even now, as he raises Wilhuff’s hand to his lips, Wilhuff can feel the strength in his hand, the wit and cleverness and intensity of this man all condensed into a single point.

Wilhuff so rarely meets men like this. Wilhuff so rarely is _pursued_ by men like this. And the sensation of being wanted, of being needed, is almost as strong as the need Wilhuff feels in return.

Power, it seems, is a quite potent aphrodisiac.

==

With a start, Wilhuff sets down his vest, shivering despite the warmth of the afternoon. He hasn’t thought seriously about Dooku in months, much less in that kind of context, and it does _not_ help the uncertainty bubbling in his brain. He needs to be precise. Focused. He cannot be thinking about Dooku, or Vader, or his parents, or _anyone_. He has a ship now.

He is going to be a commander of his own ship, and he does not have time for interpersonal concerns.

With a shake of his head, Wilhuff picks up the vest again, gathering the outfit together in order to ensure it is free of wrinkles. The process of preparation is a long one, but anything worth doing is worth doing well. And the Tarkins are _hosting_ the inauguration of _his ship_.

When Wilhuff descends the stairs, he finds Cass already waiting in the kitchen, watching as servants rush frantically between the back gardens and the kitchens proper. Cass is entirely lost, a military-plumed hawk in the next of a homebody ground-nester. Wilhuff comes up to him, grasping him by the elbow, and watches the man jump in surprise.

“Lieutenant. You’re ready early.”

“You know protocol. If you’re not on time, you’re late.”

“And if you’re late, you’re gone.” Wilhuff finishes, nodding. “Still. The shuttle from the _Intercessor_ won’t be down for an hour, likely, and the staff are still busy making sure the dais is properly decorated.”

“Yes. Your mother’s out there.” Cass sighs, glancing to Wilhuff. “And _you’re_ in formal civvies, I didn’t bring anything—”

“Shush. I’m only in this because it happens to be my home planet, and they are overly fond of publishing my image in global newscasts. You’re merely my unobtrusive aide. Don’t worry.”

“Your mother is wearing a _headdress_.”

“It’s just a braided hairpiece. Relax.”

“Governor—”

“ _Lieutenant_. You’ve guided me through this for months now, but I don’t need your help here. Let me help you.”

Cass narrows his eyes slightly, finally accepting Wilhuff’s input with a short nod. “Fine. Where should I go.”

“ _You_ should go find the cider.”

“And?”

“And taste it. To ensure that it isn’t poisoned.”

“Governor—”

“Ah, no complaints, I can’t be poisoned on this big occasion.”

“This is _your house_.”

“It’s an ‘estate’, Cass, and that doesn’t mean the cider isn’t poisoned.”

Cass hesitates a moment longer before edging away, sighing wearily. “You don’t have to give me busy work.”

“Nonsense. You _thrive_ on busy work, Cass, it’s what makes you an excellent aide.” Wilhuff claps him once on the shoulder, nodding. “You are officially released from your Imperial duties, Lieutenant Siward Cass. Either get drunk here, or sneak out and get horribly drunk downtown.”

Finally, at last, Cass cracks a smile, laughing softly to himself before folding his arms. “ _Fine_. You win. I won’t try to help.”

“Good.” Wilhuff watches, refusing to move, and nods as Cass walks away down the hallway. With a moment of hesitation, Wilhuff turns to walk in the opposite direction, exiting the back hallway to enter the gardens and watch the continued bustle. There is little real work for him to do, and so he cycles through the house and grounds, greeting the few early visitors (Eriadu civic leaders, mostly, and the few relatives who claim the Tarkin name) while watching the skies for the shuttle. At long last, Imperial attendees begin to arrive in force, and Wilhuff is more comfortable moving out to the gardens to watch his mother moving easily from group to group. To her credit, she has no hesitation about mingling with military officers, and even their taciturn responses do not deter her easy conversation.

As expected, there is a speech—one from Wilhuff himself, and an impromptu speech from the capital’s mayor. Wilhuff does not begrudge the man his moment of glory, and is quietly appreciative of the chance to escape the limelight. It makes it easier for him to slip into the crowd again, and he manages to find himself a decent meal and a cup of the spiced cider he likes best. With the heat in his blood and food in his stomach, it is easier for him to relax, and he scans the crowd to watch the men and women mingle, mix, and laugh together.

The crowd is a mass of color, blending as the spots of civilian color are lost among the military drab. Wilhuff nods to himself, gratified by the turnout, but pauses as he spots a darker segment in the shadows. He knew Vader was in attendance, and was likely somewhere around the house—but this is the first time he’s seen the man’s dark cape and broad shoulders. It’s probably for the best that Wilhuff didn’t see him earlier: he might have forgotten his entire speech out of shock.

Vader hasn’t worn his helmet. His armor isn’t the same, and Wilhuff has to study him for a long moment to realize he’s merely wearing a thick cloak, the cape concealing the details of the clothing but revealing enough to demonstrate that the thick bulk of the armor no longer hides the natural lines of Vader’s body.

Wilhuff’s head immediately fills with questions, and after those questions, an entire roster of potential answers he has no time to consider. He has to set his plate aside, turning to move back into the house, and tries to force himself to calm down in order to process things rationally. The hallways are long and mostly empty, providing plenty of time to adjust, and Wilhuff ends up climbing a set of stairs before emerging onto a second floor, wandering to a set of large bay windows to watch the people below.

Vader has dressed differently: for this event? Is there a reason, a _specific_ reason, for the change? Will it persist in any shape or form?

And should Wilhuff approach Vader with his observations?

At least his breathing is under control. Wilhuff closes his eyes, attempting to block out stimuli to focus on his priorities. He needs to take advantage of this opportunity. Vader is staying in the house, after all, and they might have time to…discuss. Things. Unprofessionally.

Wilhuff opens his eyes, starting as he finds Vader standing in the doorway to the room. It’s as he feared: Vader’s clear eyes are on full display, a stark contrast to his dark attire, and the tunic and leggings beneath the cloak do nothing to disguise the man’s physique. However, Wilhuff is more concerned with the look on Vader’s face, the earnest interest displayed there enough to jar Wilhuff from his hesitation—and the two glasses in Vader’s hands.

“Lord Vader.” He turns, moving towards the other man, but Vader is faster and moves forward first. Instead of leaving the room, Vader leads them back near the window, glancing outside to nod in appreciation.

“This house is impressive. Large enough to accommodate your needs such as this, yet still in use as a family home.”

“It’s been in the family for decades. And this isn’t even the biggest function it’s hosted.” Wilhuff can feel himself running on autopilot, the clever ease coming so naturally to him, but he is gratified to see Vader smile in response.

“Still a politician. I forget that.”

“Hmm. The Empire will likely have me forget it entirely. A ‘moff’ isn’t entirely political, are they? I have military control. Military power.” Wilhuff draws himself up, nodding. “I’d forgotten how difficult things could be in civilian circles. Oh, the shipping contracts and negotiations are painful enough, but this? This is a distraction. The necessary processes of real movement.”

Vader laughs shortly, reaching up to hand Wilhuff a glass of cider. “You forgot this outside. I take it this is a local specialty?”

“More local than you know—there’s an orchard on the very foothills outside of town.” Wilhuff nods, taking a grateful sip of the cider. “It’s some time since I saw you eat. A rare sight, what with your…”

“My armor?” Vader gestures with his free hand, lifting his own glass with the other. “Yes. It does get in the way.”

“You noticed.” Wilhuff mutters, partially to himself, feeling the hair on his arms stand up as Vader leans closer.

“I’m not the only one who’s taken a risk for the occasion.” Vader observes, reaching up with one hand to grasp the hem of Wilhuff’s vest. His hand, though still gloved, traces the tiny stitches of the brocade, and Wilhuff forces himself to focus on Vader’s face.

“Hardly a risk—it’s just something I’ve worn before, a testament to Eriadu’s culture and heritage. It’s what we politicians must do. Frivolous imagery for the people.”

“Ah, what a shame.” Vader closes the gap between them, following the line of a particularly delicate flourish up to the seam beneath Wilhuff’s arm. “I would so enjoy the chance to see you wear it again.”

That is enough to jolt Wilhuff completely, and he feels the glass in his fingers slipping as he tries to breathe. There is too much happening, too much going on, and he closes his eyes to listen to the sound of breaking glass.

But the sound does not come.

Carefully opening his eyes, Wilhuff watches as Vader holds a hand between them, the glass itself wavering faintly in the air a foot from the ground. With an easy movement, Vader bends down to pick up the glass, then sets them both aside on the deep windowsill before smiling again.

“Perhaps it’s better to avoid distractions for now.”

“ _Vader_.” Wilhuff knows what the man is doing, but can’t bring himself to complain. There are so many presumptions being made, and yet they both align on the most crucial points. Vader has sought him out. Vader has initiated the touching, the talking, the gentle smiles and careful looks and slow movements.

Fortunately for Wilhuff, it is Vader who initiates the kissing, too, because Wilhuff’s brain is unable to make the logical leap from “his hand on my waist and his face this close to mine” to direct action. No, it is Vader who presses himself close in a single quick movement, the heat of his body tangible through their clothing and his mouth meeting Wilhuff’s to stop them both talking for good.

Wilhuff surprises himself with his own excitement—he thought time might have mellowed him, or at least made him more cautious about these things. Gavin Hiteryn had tried to do this, tried to accomplish this, and had failed. Count Dooku had offered this, and failed too, in the end. But Vader is somehow both of these men and more, his own confident assurance giving him the strength Wilhuff admires while his face and hands and lips retain the flush of youth. Oh, Vader is young. But his youth does not mean he is inexperienced, and Wilhuff is encouraged by the response as he lifts his hands to Vader’s upper arms, grasping him tightly to push into the kiss.

“The blue—it brings out your eyes.” Vader mumbles, pulling away only partially to kiss Wilhuff’s chin.

“I have already been _seduced_ , Vader, there’s no need to go on.” Already, Wilhuff feels out of breath, turning himself toward Vader to match the man’s kisses.

“I thought caution might be advisable—”

“ _Blast_ caution.” This time, it is Wilhuff’s turn to grab Vader, claiming a proper kiss instead of Vader’s half-precise explorations, and pushes the man backwards to feel him move. Their movement is stuttered and partial, more like a dance than walking or strolling, but Wilhuff is already mapping the house in his head. His quarters are merely a few feet away, the distance of such little effort, and Vader is—

Vader is following, his hands still on Wilhuff, his mouth returning to Wilhuff’s neck whenever he is given the opportunity, and Wilhuff mentally concludes that the formal party is now over. His parents will see everyone out, and they’ll realize that he’s busy if the door to his suite is closed—everyone will be tired, anyway. And Cass has been given the night off.

Wilhuff is going to ensure that he makes the _most_ out of his time on-planet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this scene has gone through so many iterations and i still feel like i'm missing something, but NO MATTER NOW. this chapter was the whole reason for writing the fic in the first place.


	14. Chapter 14

If nothing else, the view from the _Intercessor’s_ viewports is incredible. It has been so long since Wilhuff had properly been on rotation, so long since he’d seen space like this, even with Vader’s escort. To simply stand, and watch, feeling the ship humming underneath—oh, yes, Wilhuff can understand now. He closes his eyes, relishing the sensation, and glories in his position as Moff.

“It never changes.” Ah. Cass. Cass is standing beside him, somehow stabilizing in his presence, and Wilhuff opens his eyes to smile at him. Wilhuff would have said the words with awe, even wonder—Cass merely states the facts, as if the sight bores him.

“Is it really so mundane? People have written epics about the view from a ‘port just like this.”

“It’s more _interesting_ when there’s ships and asteroids to avoid. The space lanes are the real beauty.” Cass blinks, holding his datapad before him. “Even now, we’re fixing them, refining them, altering the routes, but so many of them are fixed in spacers’ minds. Old ones become smuggling routes, new ones never get used, our own pilots get confused—“

“Well, that seems like mere mismanagement. That’s what I, as a moff, am meant to rectify, yes?”

“I suppose.” Cass shrugs casually, folding his arms. “You realize we’re Outer Rim patrolmen.”

“And?”

“And whatever we do here, it’s merely a stopgap measure. We’re plugging holes in a failing shield array.”

Wilhuff turns, glancing down at the command pit of the Star Destroyer to find the curious gazes of other officers and captains watching him and Cass closely. Thinking a moment, Wilhuff nods as he begins to walk, leaving the point of the Star Destroyer’s bridge to wander the length of the side passageway. “And you all share this assessment?”

There is a moment of silence, but enough of the officers nod, one of them standing to offer a quick salute. “Most of us are from the Outer Rim, sir. And while we appreciate what you did in the Republic, fighting for Eriadu and…by extension, the rest of the planets, we’re still mostly colonial backwaters.”

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Another captain offers, turning from his display. “It means there’s more room for humans to expand. Resources to utilize. But we don’t have the same infrastructure as the Inner Rim, we don’t have the proximity to Coruscant.”

Wilhuff furrows his brow, raising a hand to rub his fingers together in thought. “You realize my aim is to counteract that. I have the Emperor’s confidence, Vader himself was patrolling here.”

“Because _Seswenna_ is here.” A captain stands, suddenly shaky as Wilhuff turns his attention to the newcomer. “That’s why Vader was here. They’re merely worried about Separatists—“

“And no matter who is on duty here, whether or not it is Vader, whether there are Separatists or not, we are to do our duty. We stay vigilant. We pursue every lead. We maintain Imperial control, enforce Imperial law, and secure the protection of our citizens. I don’t care if we have Hutts on our doorstep. I don’t care if we have more smugglers than other sectors. I put little faith in the stability of any Separatist organization, as you may be able to determine, but that does not influence our efficiency here.”

Cass shuffles a foot against the deckplates, clearing his throat. “What we mean to say, sir, is merely that it can be…disappointing, to be assigned out here. However, most of us also grew up here. We _understand_ the difficulties.”

“Not all of us are going to be moffs.” The captain retorts, meeting Wilhuff’s eyes for a brief moment before glancing back to the floor. “Sir. Is all I mean.”

Wilhuff pauses for a long moment, considering the officers in the pit. “Noted, captain.” Were he on Eriadu, he might give a speech. Some conciliatory offer, some movement to express his empathy and understanding. But he is not on Eriadu. And Vader is not here to enforce Imperial doctrine.

“Whatever your thoughts about the Imperial structure, captain, there are better ways to express your discontent. Report to me at the end of your work period for a more _thorough_ corrective.”

He can see the tension in the captain’s shoulders, the sudden intake of breath that precludes an argument—but the man accepts the reprimand, and nods slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“Commander--“

“Moff.” Wilhuff clarifies, glancing again the speaker.

“Moff Tarkin, it isn’t discontent, we merely don’t wish you to be overconfident—“

“This is not ‘share our feelings’ time, colonel. I understand your positions. Truly, I do. But we are not going to earn ourselves any favors by complaining, and we certainly won’t advance our sectors if we merely trundle around the Rim like some scavenger’s crawler! I want your full effort. Your complete attention. Your whole-hearted _loyalty_ to our cause. When the moment comes, we need to strike hard and fast, and _that_ is how we overcome our limitations.” Wilhuff straightens, watching the few hesitant viewers flick their eyes to Cass. There is an unusual tension here, something he has not often encountered. It feels almost like jealousy, almost…hostile. Yet they are all sufficiently cowed by his proclamation.

“Is there a problem, colonel?”

She blinks, surprised by the question, shifting in her place. “I. Sir.”

“Lieutenant Cass is not a colonel. He is not a captain. He is not even a commander, and as such, he enjoys certain advantages and certain disadvantages. This is the confinement of rank. I repeat, colonel: is there a _problem_.”

The entire bridge is silent, even the hum of the generators muted in the atmosphere, and the colonel slowly shakes her head before returning to her seat. Wilhuff nods again, to himself, and meets Cass’s eye before striding quickly back to the tactical command centers at the back of the bridge, enjoying the relative privacy of the space as they enter a more secluded room.

Wilhuff can feel the pressure of Cass’s concern, its weight lingering like a seafarer’s anchor. He positions himself in front of a data display, reconfiguring it to pull up his itinerary, but glances to Cass, trying to judge the man’s reaction. He’s been in the military, and he hides his emotions well—but Cass is also human, sometimes overly so, and he hesitates to meet Wilhuff’s eyes.

“You agree with them.”

“They know you give me preferential treatment, sir. Some of them don’t realize why.”

“Do _you_ realize why?” Wilhuff allows himself a brief smile, seeing shock in Cass’s eyes for the first time. “Relax, Lieutenant. I am allowed a measure of nepotism at my position. However, I think you’ve proved yourself worthy of the promotion, and of my confidence.”

“You…flatter me, sir, but that does not—“

“I am not here to gain the confidence of every member of my crew. Their insights are valuable, I agree. I also understand their position. But I will not have them taking a simple invitation to explain themselves and trying to present a radical change in Imperial philosophy, especially if they feel slighted by my own choices. Procedure has its place.”

Cass nods again, exhaling carefully before nodding more fervently. “Of course. Of course, sir.”

Wilhuff scans the list of dates and names, standing tall before beckoning to Cass. “You have more influence with the men personally. I’m not an idiot, I realize that. But I have my reasons for disregarding the Separatists.”

“Many of our people were still new recruits when the crisis started. They have their tensions.”

Wilhuff waves casually, scrolling down his list. “Make sure the coordinators know to update the time for our arrival and entry into orbit. I may enjoy a military position, but I want to ensure that local authorities still have reason to accept our oversight for less formal reasons.” Wilhuff nods, continuing. “I was also relatively new to my position when the crisis started. If anything, I had more to fear—I was in a position of greater power.”

“Sir—“

“Lieutenant.” Wilhuff’s tone sharpens, but he does not look away from his list. “I _met_ Count Dooku. I personally heard his claims, his reasoning, and he was…convincing. But Dooku is dead now. I don’t expect everyone to be persuaded by my arguments,  but Dooku _was_ the Separatist movement. He was the driving force, the motive power, and his death sounded the end of the movement entirely. Even Grievous wouldn’t have been enough. The man had charisma, the knowledge of an expert politician, and he had the potential to win over most of the Rim to his cause. Even if there are holdouts, they have no support with him gone. In a year or two, they will die out, fruits of a dying vine.”

Cass is silent, watching Wilhuff, and Wilhuff knows that this is not the end of their discussion. But Cass is not willing to engage Wilhuff in a discussion of causes and results, and he merely adds data to his own pad, watching Wilhuff scroll through his itinerary.

“Don’t think that I am ignorant of the dangers, however. Going down to the planet is not my preferred method, now that I have a ship of my own. But there is value in it. Local leaders will always need reassurance.” Wilhuff sighs, rubbing at the corner of his eye to dispel a lingering fatigue. “I’ll have you accompany me, of course. But I want this to be a military excursion. I am an army commander, not a naval minister, and I expect to handle myself as such.” Backing away from the display, Wilhuff straightens, preparing himself for the next round of activity. “We will need strong planetary bases if we are to protect the lanes out this far.”

“One might argue we need to protect the lanes if we are to ensure we have strong planetary bases.” Cass observes, almost as a side note, and Wilhuff pauses briefly before laughing aloud.

“I see. Well, whatever the case, we’re going to be on planet again. Ensure that a shuttle is prepared and the _Intercessor_ is ready to remain on standby. We cannot expect Vader to take care of every concern for us—and we are going to play to our strengths.”

==

“You have grown stronger, my apprentice. Impressive.” Palpatine stands, his cowl over his face, to watch Vader prostrate himself on the burning floor of the audience chamber. They are not on Coruscant, nor on Mustafar, nor accessible by the majority of the Imperial fleet. They are alone, adrift, exempting Palpatine’s service droid. And thus no one hears Vader scream.

“The child remains.”

“I have not felt—“

“Then _feel_.” Palpatine reaches out, finding the strands of power that link the universe together, and pulls them to him to feel the energy flow through him, a conduit to Vader’s hatred. “She is alive.”

“We knew this.”

“ _Knowing_ is not the same as _feeling_.” Palpatine does not take this lightly. There are too many moving portions of this galaxy, too many beings with their own motivations and needs, and it is not easy to track them all. The Force has much to say, but Vader is not listening. There are…distractions. “If the child is alive, then they will present a danger. We cannot be lax.”

“I am…aware, my master.” Vader tenses, nearly naked on the bare floor of the chamber. “They may also present an opportunity.”

“An opportunity, my apprentice?” Palpatine smiles, considering the thoughts in Vader’s head. Yes…yes, the man isn’t quite as blind as he once was. He sees forward, looking to the future. Vader’s connection to his child is weak, but he knows what it would mean for there to be a new Force user in the galaxy. And with Padme’s presence still influencing the galaxy…

“You are certain of your feelings towards Padme Amidala.” Palpatine muses, summoning a burst of will to twist the pain receptors of Vader’s brain. The man shudders, but does not scream this time, and Palpatine inhales sharply to feel Vader’s hatred rise. He no longer reaches towards the angelic image of his former wife, that beautiful, ethereal figure he has maintained for so long—now, Vader holds less confident images, shadowy figures still uncertain and concealed.

Palpatine is there. He is gratified to feel himself, through Vader’s vision. And there are others, stark notes of black and gray, and Palpatine clenches a fist to let the Force compress Vader’s body. Vader cannot breathe, his cries now aborted, and Palpatine watches as Vader cycles through his thoughts.

“You think of Tarkin.” Palpatine’s acknowledgement is full of surprise, and he tries to avoid the irritation that follows. He had known this was possible—“I hadn’t realized the man was so fascinating.”

“He is—“ Vader struggles for breath, nails scraping against the deck plates.

“You are attracted to strong people, Vader. I cannot fault you for this.” Palpatine muses, finally releasing Vader from his duress. Vader gasps gratefully, bowing his head to the floor, and Palpatine turns away to consider this revelation more thoroughly. “Look for him, then. If you will not find Amidala, then report to me on Tarkin.”

Vader does not answer immediately, and Palpatine braces himself. It’s as he suspected: Vader’s weakness will always be his connection to another, and as Amidala pried him away from the Jedi, Tarkin may well pry him away from the Sith. But Vader’s resistance fades quickly, and Palpatine relaxes again, listening as Vader explores the lines of the Force.

“He is not sensitive. There is no connection—“

“Neither was Amidala, not in the sense you know. Yet you felt her.”

“Tarkin is—“ Vader shudders again, his body unsure of the processes by which it is meant to access the Force. Sight is not easy for a Sith—they sever connections, not form them—but Vader has done it before, as a Jedi. It should not be so unfamiliar to him. “There is. Pain.”

“Interesting. And Tarkin’s reaction?”

“Fear.”

“ _Fear_.” Palpatine hisses, relishing the thought. “Did you believe him capable of it?”

“I have felt his fear before. He uses it—“

“And is he using it now?”

“He refines his focus.” Vader’s voice is growing more confident, more stable, and Palpatine raises an eyebrow to hear the new strength. Vader mistrusts his talents, at times. “The pain is not permanent. The fear is transient. He is not Moff Tarkin in this moment, he is Wilhuff, he is—“ Vader groans, eyes flashing open. “He recites poetry.”

Palpatine laughs aloud, folding his arms. “Do you recognize the poetry?”

“Master, it is not—“

“No, no, the Jedi had no time for such things. I should be proud of Tarkin, to think he would absorb the teaching so thoroughly. But a mere military maneuver shouldn’t provoke him this way, do you think? This is unusual.”

“Perhaps why I can feel it more than usual.”

“It has been some months since you were last in the Outer Rim. Your work here has been valuable—but perhaps it is time for you to reacquaint yourself with concerns in the further reaches of our Empire.”

“I will go where you send me.”

“Yes. Yes, we will find out what it is that can unsettle our best moff so. And while you untangle those connections, perhaps you will be able to find your blood once more. Amidala may have fled to the Outer Rim. Your search is not over.”

“I hear, my master, and obey.” Vader is contrite, subdued, and Palpatine feels him sever the connection as the Force rushes around them. He will need to send Vader to Mustafar soon—or perhaps Coruscant, the depths of the sewers there, or the pits on Ord Mantell. Vader is not entirely comfortable with the flow of the Force in him, not as he should be. The Dark Side claims him in piecemeal, and though Vader is loyal, his own resistance limits him.

Perhaps the child would be more easily trained. They will be young, barely more than a toddler. And regardless of their true ability, Vader will be ever more closely bound by their presence. Palpatine will have the father and the child—at which point, the mother will be a non-issue. But Vader needs to _find_ the child first.

Palpatine wonders, briefly, how Tarkin might react to the thought of Vader’s paternal duties. The addition of a child would complicate things. He will need to speak with Tarkin more directly on this topic—ensure the man’s loyalty and devotion. This can be done, but with finesse. With care. With _caution_.

Then again, Palpatine did not become Emperor because of his inability to coordinate other beings. Vader, and Tarkin, will work in tandem. And the future of the Empire will be a promising one.

==

_17:13:42 ISD ISR 5587: Garrison deployed on Shuttles V and VI. Confirm landing zone._

_17:14:54  ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: Landing confirmed. Can’t you get them down here any faster?_

_17:15:23 ISD ISR 5587: Lieutenant, we’re having to coordinate with local air traffic—_

_17:15:30 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: Coordinating with locals is what got us into this mess in the first place! Your commander is_ missing _, do I have to explain any further?_

_17:15:55 ISD ISR 5587: Lieutenant, we understand—_

_17:16:01 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: We have twenty four hours to work, Captain. Forty eight, if we’re lucky._

_17:16:42 ISD ISR 5587: Yes. Of course. We’re already preparing a report._

_17:17:15 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: Send the initial documentation but do_ not _send a formal report. If the other moffs get wind of this, they’ll close in like sawteeth on an open wound. There’s more players in the game now, Captain._

_17:17:40 ISD ISR 5587: … … …_

_17:18:28 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: Captain?_

_17:18:50 ISD ISR 5587: You’re starting to sound like him now, Lieutenant._

_17:19:34 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: You should know that I take that as a compliment. I’m still no serviceable substitute—so the sooner we get Moff Tarkin back, the better. Let’s hope we don’t start getting ransom letters._

_17:20:45 ISD ISR 5587: Confirmed. Channel will remain open—pending your orders, Lieutenant._

_17:21:10 ISD ISR-SIII 458 -- -- CAS: Good. And—thank you._

_\----_

_Incident Report 5468-142:_

_A landing party entered the capital city of the continent Athyrita, acting on an invitation by local authorities. After initial greetings, the party was attacked during a tour of the city. The attackers were repulsed by garrison in place, but abducted the party leader, Moff Wilhuff Tarkin._

_A second garrison has been deployed to the planet, under the command of Acting Commander Lieutenant Siward Cass._

_The_ Intercessor _will remain in orbit, to offer support and comms coordination for parties on-planet. All ships leaving the planet will be subject to Imperial security measures, and two squadrons of TIE fighters will be deployed at all times to enforce these measures._

_(Comment: Cass thinks they’ll keep him for ransom? Tarkin must be better connected than we realized. If they’re trying to start a war on-planet, though…Cass better have a plan for getting us out of here quick if it all goes to hell.)_


	15. Chapter 15

There were not many kidnappings in the epics of old. As a plot device, it didn’t often advance the plot, and all the best monologues came from the kidnappers, not the kidnapped. There was some appeal to being the flowering maiden, cowering under her captor’s hand, but Wilhuff finds himself too adverse to the role. Besides, the fair maidens usually wore white or pale blue—Eriadu’s playwrights tended to put their heroines in peach—and his Imperial uniform was a stark, sickly gray. He grimaces to see how it takes on a depressingly olive cast in the poor light, and as he settles against the crates, he again reviews the litany of monologues he has memorized.

He’s already gone through _Fietha Adore_ , and tried to alter the litany of _Dógrethenes._ The ‘Widow’s Lament’ is serviceable, but it’s difficult to make ‘kidnapped’ or ‘abducted’ fit into the same rhyme structure as ‘killed’ or ‘murdered’, and he gives up halfway through the project to try an alternate tack. He’d gotten through the first few hours in such a fashion, and now it’s time to focus. He may be a victim of circumstance, but he is no hapless hero. He is a _Tarkin_ , Siblings take him, and he will comport himself with dignity.

At least his captors are quiet beings, for the most part. They glare at him, watching askance as they maneuver him through shuttle bays and cargo holds, but now their vehicle is immobile. There is no hum of machinery or movement, and thus all four of the beings are apparently meant to watch him, rather than piloting their vehicle. Wilhuff is relatively certain they haven’t been airborne—the ride has been far too bumpy for that—but he doesn’t know what might be outside, whether they’re still in a city or out in the countryside.

He knows they’ve been watching him, even as he’s recited his poems to himself and tried to avoid the jut of a crate against the small of his back. But as he opens his eyes, they studiously avoid him, staring at the blank wall of their hold while one of them—the pilot, perhaps—toys with a communicator.

“You haven’t made any threats.” One of the beings finally speaks, a taller human with a scruffy beard. “I thought you’d make more threats.”

Wilhuff furrows his brow, but waits a long moment before exhaling slowly. “I have nothing with which to threaten you. You’ve taken my weapon.”

“That peashooter?” The human smirks, settling back against his seat. “You have a Star Destroyer. You control a whole sector. You could use those.”

“I wouldn’t insult your intelligence by making threats I couldn’t fulfill.” Wilhuff counters, glancing to his boots. In honesty, there is a feeling of loss, of disconnectedness, with his comm removed and no way to contact the _Intercessor_. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on Cass’s presence, the voice in his ear, the constant updates and reports from the ship. It is…shocking.

“Hm. Well. I just thought you’d be more talkative.”

Wilhuff does scoff at that, rolling his eyes as he felt for the restraints around his wrists. It was shameful, how quickly they’d managed to take him down—his training from the Academy was rusty, and he hadn’t trained in hand-to-hand combat properly for years. He makes a note to resume a stricter regimen once he was back on board the _Intercessor_ —if it was feasible.

“I am not going to threaten you, I would hardly start begging, and I doubt you’re going to tell me where we are. What kind of conversation would you like to have?”

This time, the human sneers, turning away to watch the pilot—their leader, probably?—continue working with the communicator. “Anything?”

“I’ve sent the packet. There’s nothing else for us to do.”

The human stands, making a noise between frustration and dismissal, and exits the hold to let his footsteps echo through the vehicle. Wilhuff turns his head, listening to the sounds of the ship around him, and concludes it must be larger than he had anticipated. Something like a transport, not merely a glorified speeder—a repurposed walker? A residential vehicle? If he could take a look inside these crates, he might get a better idea—

“We told Apoidea what we were planning.” Another human male, shorter and thinner than the other man, fidgets in his seat, looking to the pilot with clear anticipation.

“She might not have received the first communication.”

“She should’ve—we have a better way to make contact, don’t we?”

“Shut up.”

“We can’t keep him here permanently—“

“Shut _up_.” The pilot stands, her irritation evident. “We’ve only had him for a few hours.  If you’re going to be this shaky about holding a hostage, why bother?”

“Shera—“ The male stands, approaching the pilot, and she bats him away with one hand as she adjusts her receiver.

“Get the food, or something. We just have to hold out until we get confirmation—“

“There is a _Star Destroyer_ in orbit, Shera, holding out will not be an option for long!”

“Not _here_ , Therin.” The pilot turns, glancing to Wilhuff, then marches out of the hold, her male companion following close behind. Finally, Wilhuff is alone with the one non-human member of the group, and he merely nods once to the huge, furred creature to hear it burble back at him.

Now that the first rush of terror has subsided, Wilhuff is beginning to realize that the true challenge won’t be mere survival—it will be putting up with these _children_ as they fumble their way through a hostage situation.

This could be some time.

==

That the _Intercessor_ is already in orbit comes as no surprise. Vader brings the _Executor_ into orbit without delay as he enters the system, and he _feels_ rather than sees the shocked reactions of the _Intercessor’s_ crew and the on-planet garrison. They did not expect him here, especially without—ah. Right. They hadn’t submitted a full report. Only Palpatine and Vader had access to these pre-submission reports, and they hadn’t sent a request or formal orders for Vader’s arrival here.

If only finding Padme was so simple. With Tarkin’s ship, it was so easy to locate him, to trace his movements across the galaxy. Vader stands at his tactical table, watching the movement of ships played out on a holographic map, buildings and other ships highlighted in other colors. He can hear the mutter of on-ground operations moving, chattering, and their movements are all…pointless.

Wilhuff is missing.

Wilhuff has been _abducted_.

This is all too familiar, all too great, and in the face of the fact that he hasn’t seen Wilhuff in months since their respective reassignments, Vader is unsure what it means. Padme had been used as a pawn, certainly. More than once. And though Anakin had always been eager to help her, he was also willing to give her the space she needed to do her own work, not to barge in and declare himself the hero in the midst of her achievements. But Wilhuff is not a politician, not anymore, and this kidnapping—

It _has_ to be politically motivated. But Wilhuff is a military commander, so there may be a military strategy at play—but perhaps Wilhuff has connections out here, this far in the Outer Rim, and there may be Tarkin family business at play. Things were never this complicated on Naboo.

Vader balls a fist and slams it against the table, feeling the staff in the bridge pit tensing at the sound. He should be on the planet, he should be _looking_ for Wilhuff. But Lieutenant Cass is already on-planet, and he’s made an informal report to Vader once so far. Vader knows little about the man, even with his close association with Wilhuff, but Cass’s report was clear and confident. Even with the slight trepidation Vader inspires, Cass never faltered or flinched. Wilhuff has chosen well.

Vader knows that coming here was an impulse. Palpatine had wanted him to come here, likely to clear his head, to correct this situation, but Vader is more confused than ever. He feels his devotion tugging him towards the planet, insisting that he barge into the governor’s office and demand full search teams, but Cass’s careful reassurances have done their work. The tension around the man’s eyes betrays his feelings: Cass is just as concerned about Wilhuff’s whereabouts as Vader is. And Vader needs to let him work.

There have been no ransom demands yet, and Vader has been impressed by the lockdown around the planet. Finding and identifying a single being, even one as distinctive as Moff Tarkin, is no simple task, and it’s possible that Wilhuff will yet slip through their fingers. Smugglers are dedicated folk. Cass has assessed the situation as best he can, locking down the formal exits, but there are still avenues. Back channels, the darker underbelly of the polite galaxy—oh, Vader is more than familiar with these.

But is Cass aware of them?

The possibility of action galvanizes Vader, and he calls up the situation report again to read over the security measures in place. This is not like the events on Seswenna. The group there had been purely Separatist, and their goal was merely to terrorize, not to bargain. They had wanted Wilhuff because he was an Imperial, and for no other reason. And then the aberration on Corulag—it would never end, would it?

 _No_. It would end. Perhaps not for months, or years, or decades, but this danger would be destroyed. The galaxy would be made to understand the vision in store for it. As for this instance, whoever had Wilhuff, whatever their reason for holding him, Vader would end this.

Turning from the table, Vader ordered a shuttle prepared. Cass would be insulted, perhaps—but there was no reason Vader had to inform the lieutenant of his presence. He would let Cass do his work, just as he’d assured him. But if Vader was to understand the situation fully, he would have to do the work himself.

Wilhuff was a man of politics, as he deserved. The discussions, the accords, the speeches, they all suited Wilhuff’s tastes and methods. But Vader was a man of action. And thus it was action that would solve this crisis.

Vader knew of no other way.

==

Being imprisoned for a few hours is an inconvenience. Being imprisoned for a few days is an irritation. Wilhuff hopes that he won’t find out what it is to be imprisoned for a few _months_ —regardless of whatever cells he’s tossed into, he’s not sure if he can handle being with these _amateurs_ for that long.

First there was the bickering. It was hardly isolated to a single incident, but had extended over the days he’d been here. The first rule of hostage situations was that the captors, if there were more than one, should present a united front. Never give the hostage a chance to sow disunity, and keep arguments in another room if they have to be had. This group, this band of four, had failed on this count.

They’d been diligent at feeding him, though he’d accepted that one meal a day was enough to sustain him for the time being, and it was the _boredom_ that now threatens him. Sometimes the two human males would engage him in conversation, but they couldn’t seem to hold a conversation without resorting to empty threats or vague assurances that the Empire would ‘get its due’ thanks to his capture.

Wilhuff has forced himself to be patient. And slowly, over time, that patience has begun to pay off. He is antsy from lack of movement and having nearly exhausted his collection of memorized poems, he is eager for this little charade to end. These outliers may have managed to hide him away this long, but there is more to them than meets the eye.

There was ‘Apoidea’. The name felt odd in Basic, clunky on the tongue, but Wilhuff ran it through every filter he knew to try and pick it apart. It had to be a code name, a reference to ‘her’, but there was literally a galaxy of female beings to choose from. Even a ship, or a droid, could hold the name.

The group had apparently contacted ‘her’ once, and there was a chance they were taking orders, but the entire setup was too shoddy for that. If Apoidea was in another location, coordinating from afar, Wilhuff would expect a touch more sophistication in his imprisonment.

Which brought him to his second complaint. They’d managed to attack an Imperial shuttle, withdrawing him from the protection of the governor’s entourage without harming his person, and they’d hid him from Imperial security for this long. And yet the group didn’t seem to know what to _do_ with him, relying on some hoped-for contact with Apoidea to give them direction. _I am a_ moff _,_ Wilhuff wanted to shout, _and beyond that, a planetary governor, the commander of a Star Destroyer, and a personal confidant of Emperor Palpatine. If you wanted something, then ask._ Yet as far as he could tell, no demands were being made—and he seriously doubted that the group was clever enough to hide that detail from him, if they were trying to threaten the crew of his ship or the Empire at large. The way they talked about him, it sounded like they were attempting to use him as leverage—using him to bargain for a change in Imperial policy, or a redirection of Imperial resources.

But Palpatine would never respond to something as minor as a kidnapping, not with legislation. Wilhuff might be important, but he was still only one man. For the change they sought, they would need to barricade an entire continent, or blockade a planet. If nothing else, the Trade Federation had realized _that_ right out of the gate. This was a homegrown group of wannabe politicians, trying to adopt a terrorist’s ways without realizing any of their goals. It was possible, again, that this was all some convoluted ruse to mislead him, but it was unlikely that this crew was capable of such deception.

“This is pointless. We should be off the planet by now.” Though the speaker is the younger human male, Wilhuff finds himself agreeing, tilting his head back to study the ceiling of his compartment.

“I’m not going to go through the trouble of getting him into a ship just to get shot out of the sky by those Star Destroyers.” As usual, it was the female pilot who responded. The four beings tended to watch him in shifts, though they’d left him alone at nights for the most part. From the way the male watched the pilot, it was clear that he assigned himself those shared shifts—and the thought makes Wilhuff laugh to himself in private.

But yet—Star Destroyers, plural?

“They wouldn’t shoot immediately.” Wilhuff says, ignoring their surprised glances. “They probably have some hope of reclaiming me alive, which means they would seize the ship first. If that’s what worries you.”

The two humans are quiet, probably taken aback by his contribution. He’d remained silent for so long, they might have forgotten he is capable of speech. The pilot shifts on her crate, watching Wilhuff intently, and sets aside her drinking container to study him.

“You’ll forgive me if that isn’t exactly comforting.”

“It was not meant to comfort.” Wilhuff replies. “Though perhaps you need it, given that your own superiors have abandoned you.”

“They haven’t abandoned us!” The male stands, his adolescent rage flushing in his husky voice. Wilhuff does not move, or shift, or acknowledge the change, and he feels the even gaze of the pilot as she eyes them both. “We just—We took a risk. They’ll see the importance of this soon enough.”

“I’m sure.” Wilhuff says without inflection, feeling more than seeing the young man fumble.

“You’re a high profile target. It’s not like we decided this on a whim—people know you. They know your name.” The pilot speaks this time, ignoring the young man’s outburst. “I’m still trying to decide how much you actually know.”

Wilhuff laughs at that, shifting up to stretch his arms as best he can. “I should be offended, I think. I know enough to be dangerous.”

“Do you know what the Empire actually is? Do you know who that…that watchdog, that _Sith_ , who he truly is? You were smart enough to survive out here in the Outer Rim, but Palpatine is more deceptive than the average politician.”

Wilhuff sits forward, laughing again with genuine mirth. “Of course he is. He’s the _Emperor_.”

“Yes, well—“ The woman frowns, resting her hands on her knees. “But you’ve been out here for five years. Vader, and the Emperor, they aren’t _normal_ anymore, there’s other forces—“

“You think a normal man would have been able to transform the Republic? We were being stifled by Republican standards, fractured by the Separatist Crisis. Did you resist Dooku’s argument so nobly as you resist the Emperor? I have been with Vader for most of the past year. I realize he is not a traditional military commander, nor is he politically minded, but he is _effective_.”

“Mothma says—“ The young man starts again, his brow furrowing.

“Therin!” The pilot says sharply, making the man jump. Wilhuff turns to look at them for the first time, one eyebrow raised in interest.

“Mothma. You mean Mon Mothma?” Wilhuff considers the name, trying to recall the image of the woman in his mind. He knows she is the senator from Chandrila, or was the last time he’d checked. A strong woman, about his age—Red. Red hair. He remembers now. She’d been seated near him at one of the ad hoc charity dinners, an utterly useless production that had wasted a good evening. She reminded him of his mother.

_“You still keep such tight control of events on Eriadu, Wilhuff. Is there not the freedom for people to live their lives?”_

_“They are free to live as they choose. It is their interactions, their participation in society, that occupy my administration.”_

_“Surely you must realize that, as a Tarkin, your perspective is skewed. Eriadu has been kind to you. For those without those advantages, it is the duty of each of us, as their leaders and representatives, to give them the chance to succeed.”_

_Tarkin had laughed. “Ah. I see. Eriadu has been kind to me. Remind me, Mon Mothma, how long has Chandrila had Republic representation? How long have your senators been respected in the chambers? The Tarkins have dragged Eriadu out of its former ignominious position and made it a jewel in the Outer Rim’s crown. We have taken responsibility for our planet, and shouldered the burden of its leadership. If someone else would seek that place, then let them pry it from our hands.”_

“Therin, you idiot.” The pilot stands, advancing on her counterpart with shoulders tensed.

“Careful, Shera. As of right now, he hasn’t confirmed Mon Mothma’s relationship to your little group. I’m happy to believe that you all were merely inspired by the senator’s peaceful ways, and she is not directly connected to your actions here.” Wilhuff watches closely, the pilot glaring at him with attempted anger and slow realization.

“You’re lying.”

“No. Consider what was said.”

The pilot bares her teeth, glancing between Wilhuff and her companion. “ _This_ is why we’re supposed to keep quiet.”

To his credit, the young man hunches in pseudo-apology, edging away. “Sorry.”

“I told them you were smart. Cen wanted to bargain with you directly, try and convince you to see our point of view, but neither of _them_ are smart enough to talk to you without mucking it up.”

“Why, Shera, I think I’m flattered.” Wilhuff leans back again, smiling as he closes his eyes. “One good turn deserves another: you have initiative. That’s important. But to have the wisdom to decide on a good course of action takes more than just willpower. You need to keep your aims reasonable, _realistic_. To have captured me is impressive. To use me profitably is another issue altogether.”

Shera says nothing, watching Wilhuff through narrowed eyes, then grabs her companion’s arm to march them out of the compartment, leaving Wilhuff alone once more. He listens closely to the movement of the crew throughout the ship, Shera’s irritation evident through her heavier footsteps, and tries to return to a light sleep. If nothing else, it passes the time.

Mon Mothma, though. That could add a new dimension to this situation. Though despite the clear assumption—that Mothma was the ‘Apoidea’ in question, the mysterious contact guiding this tiny cell—was staring him in the face, the accidental quotation of a young kidnapper was not nearly strong enough as evidence. Mothma was smarter than that, smart enough to deflect any accusations the Empire could bring against her. And moving too quickly would only scare away the actors moving behind the scenes, scattering them like birds from the trees. It was disappointing, to know that the work of building the Empire had just begun and there were those out there already working to tear it down. But Wilhuff would not let himself be disheartened. If anything, his resolve was stronger now, firmer in the appreciation of his goal.

Now. If he could only return to his ship…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got really long so I cut it off part way--it won't linger too much longer, I promise.


	16. Chapter 16

Darkness. It is easier to move in the darkness. Vader sits, his men in the transport beside him, and he waits, thinking. This planet is small in population, partially inert, faint in the Force. Yet he meditates, feeling the men around him, tasting both the Light and the Dark in equal measure. It disturbs him, that he can access both so readily. The Dark is meant to be easier, and he only reaches for his loss to feel it flare within him—yet there is a soothing aspect of calm that washes in, a part of him that resists the heated trauma. He would kill it, if he could. But the Dark Side does not give him that strength yet.

Cass had done well, in the end. He’d provided the contacts necessary for Vader to pursue the speeder that had taken Wilhuff, and even located the comms and identification plaques that the kidnappers had discarded outside of the city. He’d narrowed their search area, and even when Vader stormed into their makeshift headquarters and _ordered_ a change of plans, Cass had gracefully bowed out of command. Now they had a target. Beyond that—and what Vader had hoped to find—they had the contacts, the channels these kidnappers were using. And though the channels themselves were nothing more than bands of static, the interplanetary modes of communication, Vader could feel a greater purpose behind them, tinged with the Force in a way he couldn’t identify.

Was this why his master had sent him? It must have been, this faintest thread of a hint of a connection, the possibility of a lead. Though he had come for Wilhuff, none of them acted in a vacuum. Whatever their motivation, this would soon come to an end. Vader was here now. And where Vader intervened, the Empire could not fail.

The AT-ATs and the AT-STs of the Star Destroyers had their place, but they could not replace the shuttles or speeders provided by the planetary government. In the end, a ship was a ship, and Vader felt his pilots maneuver it as they approached the determined vehicle. It was like the Jawas, or the Sand People, deep in Vader’s memory: these kidnappers had fled to the outskirts, hiding in the expanse, but this only made it easier to find them in the wilderness. Cass remained in the city, acting as the relay between Vader’s garrison and the Star Destroyers above, but there was no need to act on such a large scale. This was a minor operation, in truth.

If Vader had left Cass to it, things would have likely worked out all the same.

But Vader is here now, and he has taken charge of this. This is his work now, and he will do as he was meant to do. His master has sent him here, and Wilhuff—well, Wilhuff would be grateful for the company. After this endeavor, at least. Vader hopes.

Landing is the easy part, in truth. Vader does not wait for his troopers to follow, but moves ahead on his own, reaching out with the Force to familiarize himself with the latches and mechanics of the vehicle ahead. The vehicle itself rumbles, its occupants preparing to move, but Vader inhales deeply and clenches a fist, locking the machinery in place to hear a whine start up deep in the engine. A door opens, letting a furry bipedal exit, and Vader ignites his lightsaber to hear the thing roar. The machinery whine increases in pitch, rising higher and higher, and Vader barks an order to hear his men rushing forward. Escape is not so simple.

A series of shots disables one of the vehicle’s engines, and Vader manipulates the Force to locate the machinery for the cargo hold and throw it open, doors shuddering in their holds with the power of the movement. He is vaguely aware of more screeching, the shouts of humans, the movement as they reach for their guns, but surprisingly, this is all muted to him. The sounds fade, the movement is blurred: his focus is keyed in onto only one figure, and he finds his breath caught in his throat as he seems to hold the moment in crystallized resin.

Wilhuff.

Wilhuff, bound by the arms, partially hidden behind a shipping crate.

Wilhuff, clearly under duress from his captivity, but still so bright and brilliant, his eyes scanning the field of battle, and Vader can already _feel_ his mind working, determining his movements—

Vader does not wait for anyone else to move. His lightsaber is enough to make the kidnappers pause, and he uses the Force to cross the empty space and enter the cargo hold. A young man holds a blaster before him, his hands trembling as he tries to aim, and Vader turns to him for only a moment before thrusting him back and holding the blaster in place. The boy goes flying, the blaster clattering to the floor, and Vader crouches to undo Wilhuff’s bindings before taking Wilhuff’s arm. His lightsaber has been holstered without a pause, merely part of his movement, and it leaves him both hands free to lift Wilhuff from the floor of the cargo hold.

Surprisingly, Wilhuff manages to stand without difficulty, shaking his hands to restore blood flow, and Vader removes his helmet to let it fall to the floor without thinking in order to look more closely at Wilhuff, studying the bags under his eyes. Even without saying a word, Wilhuff merely smiles, grabbing onto Vader’s upper arm to steady himself as he matches Vader’s gaze.

“You came.”

Vader prepares himself to respond, to admit that there might be other reasons for his presence here, but a blaster shot distracts him, and he shoves Wilhuff behind him before facing the newcomer. A young woman, her grip on her blaster more confident and steady as she looks between Vader and her compatriot still lying on the floor, moves to determine the status of her friend, watching him moan in muted pain.

“You’ve hurt him.” She says, her voice even but derisive. To Vader’s surprise, Wilhuff moves from behind him, reaching to pick up the fallen blaster before studying it almost casually.

“Your other two compatriots will be facing worse than that outside.”

Her brow furrows, her face tightening. “Better that we die than languish in an Imperial prison—“

“You truly believe that. Astounding.” Wilhuff raises the blaster again, his arm ramrod-straight as he aims at the young man's figure against the wall. “I’ll give you more advice: if you want your speeches to make an impact, study the speeches of old. There’s a reason some have survived for so long.” With a slight adjustment, Wilhuff fires, causing the woman to shriek as she leaps back from the bolt.

There is an odd silence as the woman blinks, staring at Wilhuff with a _hurt_ Vader hadn’t expected. She is younger than she appears, and Wilhuff is watching without blinking as she tries to breathe.

“The-Therin-“

“Better he die, you said. You’ve gotten your wish.” Wilhuff now aims the blaster at the woman herself, apparently ignoring Vader’s presence. “Now. I’d like to continue our conversations—but with you the one in bindings, I think.”

“ _Never_.” The woman says, rough and harsh, and Vader can see the glitter of tears as she raises her blaster in response. However, she does not aim it at Wilhuff, and Vader takes a quick breath in the instant before Wilhuff barks,

“ _Vader—“_

Vader is already moving, reaching out to hold the woman immobile as she tries to lift the blaster higher. Even as he holds her with the Force, he comes to take her throat in one gloved hand, using his other hand to grab the blaster and wrench it from her grip. The woman chokes, likely surprised at his speed, and Vader tightens his grip just slightly to feel her struggle.

Behind him, Wilhuff moves, still holding the blaster to study the woman more closely. There is much unsaid, with Wilhuff’s gaze, but he finally nods and Vader releases the woman to have her collapse to the floor. Wilhuff reaches, gripping her shoulder, and presses the blaster into her back, letting Vader relay orders to his men as they begin to walk.

“March.” Wilhuff orders, prodding the woman forward, and Vader ignores the body now lying on the floor to lead the way out of the cargo hold. His captain comes rushing forward, offering a report, and Vader nods for him to take custody of the woman in Wilhuff’s grip. They all accomplish the transition wordlessly, the woman having realized the enormity of her situation, and Wilhuff comes again to Vader’s side as the garrison retreats back into the shuttle with its prisoners in tow.

Vader waits, watching them move, until the two of them are mostly alone and he can grip Wilhuff’s arm again. It is only partially from fear that Wilhuff might collapse that he keeps his grip tight, his hair ruffling in the slight breeze. “You killed him.”

“I’ve done worse things.” Wilhuff says, leaning into Vader’s grip. “I don’t think you needed to be here.”

“No. But I was sent.” Vader tries to explain, to present some explanation, but there is nothing he can think of that suffices. “Wilhuff—“

“I’m fine.” And despite the situation, Vader believes him. Only Wilhuff Tarkin would be _kidnapped_ and then regard it as nothing more than a boisterous afternoon. “Vader, you need to know—they weren’t acting alone. We need her alive for questioning, they have contacts—“

“Shush. We’ll deal with that in due time.” Vader turns, releasing Wilhuff so that Vader can return to the cargo hold and reclaim his helmet. As he replaces it on his head, he finds Wilhuff watching him, Wilhuff’s eyes somehow softer despite the additional readings of the helmet’s goggles. “Wilhuff?”

“You should come to the _Intercessor_. After.” Wilhuff looks away, hands fidgeting at his sides. Vader could laugh at the sight, watching Wilhuff shift, and draws closer once more to sweep Wilhuff into a proper embrace.

“I can do you one better. Come with me to the _Executor_ now, and we won’t need to worry about shuttles.” Whatever Wilhuff says, Vader will not take ‘no’ for an answer—and fortunately, Wilhuff smiles in acceptance as he presses close.

“Very well. Get me off this planet.”

“Your wish is my command.” Vader keeps Wilhuff close to him, ignoring whatever else may come. Wilhuff has been _returned_ to them, and to him—no matter what comes next.

==

Wilhuff finds his reception oddly endearing. Cass is delighted to see him, grinning at him and reaching forward before remembering his training and offering a sharp salute. Wilhuff is deeply touched: even with their usual lack of contact, even with their military demeanors, even with Cass’s respect for the hierarchy, he is willing to try and offer comfort. Wilhuff manages a short statement of gratitude, making sure that the men were well aware that whatever Vader’s contribution, Cass had clearly managed the _Intercessor_ and her squadrons well in Wilhuff’s absence. With this, however, Wilhuff makes it clear that he has no need to return to the _Intercessor_ immediately, and accompanies Vader back to his ship to review the custody of the captive.

Now he is alone again with Darth Vader. Lord of the Sith, the monster that had so terrified his captors and has enforced the iron grip of the Empire throughout the galaxy. The last time they had seen each other, Wilhuff had been at his family home, still reeling from his promotion and the assignment of a Star Destroyer. Vader had discarded his armor. They had…come to an understanding.

But it has been months since that instance. Wilhuff had thought himself solid in his position, confident in his relation to both his subordinates and his superiors. He has managed the Rim, comported himself with finesse, and earned the loyalty of his men. But Vader has not become any more understandable in all that time. The removal of his helmet, the reality of that face, his hair, his _body_ underneath—

Wilhuff finds himself staring at Vader, unsure of where to go. They haven’t gone to any of the tactical rooms, or stopped at the holding cells. Vader has taken him directly to his personal chambers, and Wilhuff stands now in the antechamber, confused and yet hopeful in his unusual circumstances.

“Vader.” He begins, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

“Wilhuff.” Vader responds easily, his helmet already set on a waiting table and his cape folded neatly beside it. It changes the shape of his body significantly, and Wilhuff finds himself staring in quiet appreciation as Vader moves through the room.

“We need to speak with the captive.” Wilhuff feels the words, heavy and thick, on his tongue, and he grimaces. “They made references to their contacts, to certain names, important figures—“

“Shh. I’m aware.” Vader turns, stepping forward to reach for Wilhuff’s shoulders. Wilhuff, despite his reservations, allows him to do so, leaning into the touch again as he tries to sort out his thoughts.

“They aren’t Separatists. Not anymore. These are—I suppose ‘rebels’ is the only appropriate term, but they lack the organization. Terrorists. Terrorists with important contacts.”

“Terrorists who _kidnapped_ you, Wilhuff.”

“Yes, which means they might have more passion than sense. Now is the time to track them down.”

“Your enthusiasm for your work is admirable, Wilhuff, but you tread a dangerous line.” Vader’s hands pull Wilhuff closer, bringing him into the hollow of Vader’s body.

“Vader—“

“You may have an evening _free_ from these concerns, Wilhuff. You are allowed this.”

Wilhuff exhales sharply, closing his eyes as he grabs the front of Vader’s uniform and presses his face into the hard barrier of Vader’s shoulder armor. The contrast of soft and hard, of unforgiving armor and of gentle fabric, makes him shiver in either appreciation or expectation, and he tries to focus on the task at hand.

“Vader, you need to understand, we need to strike while the iron is hot. There is a female figure at work here, possibly connected to Mon Mothma or possibly the senator herself—“

This time, Vader does not respond verbally, but wraps his arms around Wilhuff more tightly to make him stop. A gloved hand finds its way into Wilhuff’s hair, cradling his head, and Wilhuff curses himself for responding to the touch.

“I do not want to think about rebels right now.”

Wilhuff nods slowly, shifting to press himself closer to the faint body heat he can feel, hidden beneath the layers of Vader’s armor. Perhaps…Vader has a point.

“Last time. You were…very forward with me.”

Vader _laughs_ at that, shaking them both with the sound. “I suppose that is a word for it,  yes.”

“I appreciated it.” Wilhuff pulls himself away, matching Vader’s posture to grasp Vader’s upper arms. “I continue to appreciate it. I…have missed you.”

“And I you.” Vader brings a hand to Wilhuff’s chin, stroking the skin gently. “But such is the nature of our duties. On rare occasions like this, we can indulge ourselves, however.”

The words make Wilhuff pause, his breath catching in his throat. The danger of these implications, the way they dance around this topic—

“I will not have sex with you. Not today, not…” Wilhuff pulls away, shaking his head. “There is too much.”

“I see.” Vader, somehow, is not offended, not even _deterred_ , and he lets his arms fall to his sides as he watches Wilhuff. “It has been a long day.”

“Day? Night? All of the above.” Wilhuff reaches up to rub at his brow, looking to the side. “I should return to the _Intercessor_ —“

“I did not bring you here merely for _sex_ , Wilhuff.” Vader moves forward again, wrapping an arm around Wilhuff’s waist. “I would hope you thought more of me than that. My quarters are…perhaps a touch more lavish than others. I have certain advantages. Disregard your duties and let me favor you with my attention, restoring you to your full glory. Let me simply treasure this time.”

Wilhuff finds himself smiling, surprised at the tenderness Vader injects into the words. And it has been so long—Vader’s touch is so gentle, so tender, and it nearly brings Wilhuff to breathlessness again. He nods quietly, reaching up to wrap his arms around Vader’s neck, and smiles to watch the light filter through Vader’s eyes. Gold, glittering, like a treasure hidden behind locks and chains—there is value to him, far and above either his power as a commander or his physical appearance. Wilhuff pushes himself forward, surprising them both by pressing his lips to Vader’s, and smiles into the kiss as Vader grips him by the waist.

Even without a politician’s expertise, it seems Vader can be incredibly convincing all the same.


	17. Chapter 17

The activity on Coruscant is still unchanged, still as hectic and frantic as ever. There is still a fragile layer of confidence, of glitz and glamour, shimmering on the surface while the planet roils with instability underneath. Wilhuff hadn’t seen it before—not so clearly, at least, not with this new vision. He has not yet crossed the line into paranoia, and he monitors himself closely to make sure he does not fall past that point, but stepping onto the surface of Coruscant (rather, the surface of the landing pad) immediately makes him tense.

Even with Vader nearby, the pressure of the other humans, the other beings, so close around him is nigh incomprehensible. The people of Eriadu were mostly understandable, and the politics and processes of Seswenna were _sensible_. Coruscant is barely-controlled chaos, and Wilhuff can feel the edges where one might fall into its cracks.

Is that what happened to Padme, then? Did she fall too far, past Vader’s rescue?

Did Vader _want_ to rescue her?

The thoughts are too much, too confusing, and even Vader’s presence does not help. Their occasional talks are oddly comforting, but Vader is still no politician, and his knowledge of human interaction has a distinctly spiritual tone that is totally foreign to Wilhuff. They have crossed the galaxy, beginning their research into the foundations of rebellion, and now it is impossible for Wilhuff to _unsee_ rebellion forming. This return to Coruscant will allow them to consult with the Emperor to earn his input, and keep him informed. Palpatine may already know of these events, of course—it would be folly to imagine he didn’t—but consultation, in person, is necessary. Coruscant is still the center of the galaxy, and it is important that as a moff with _potential_ , Wilhuff remain close by.

Moving through the city, Wilhuff does not speak, considering instead the webs in motion here. Vader has his own plans, certainly, and there is a history to him that Wilhuff will not ask about. Wilhuff had made his position here, arranged his plans, formed the temporary alliances these other moffs are so fond of. More importantly, his family has remained in contact, providing the occasional input and unsolicited advice for his career.

And Rina has been in contact, through the back channels of Imperial communication. The ISB is real, sure enough. Wilhuff has arranged for her transfer, and she has—for all intents and purposes—dropped off the radar almost entirely. There have been these few cryptic messages, however, and Wilhuff has learned her ways well enough after so long. It is important to see the Emperor, of course. But if he happens to find his wayward cousin…

There could be more than one important meeting on this visit.

\---

So high up above the city, the windows of the buildings glitter, mimicking the satellites visible at the very edge of the horizon. All of Coruscant exists in this bubble of technology, wrapped up in itself like a Mobius strip. Vader has meditated, and he feels the binding of his armor around his legs, his arms, the mask resting heavy on his face. Even on his own person, he cannot escape the limitations of technology, the orders handed down from someone else. His Master. His _new_ Master.

_Anakin. Anakin, Padme is worried._

_Then why wouldn’t she come to see me herself? Is she so afraid, has she lost all her fire?_

_She wanted me to speak to you. This war, the Separatists—she has already stepped down from her position, she’s tried to work with Senator Organa to counter the Emergency Powers Act, but in her condition…_

_I can’t believe a mere physical barrier would limit her._

_She is_ tired _, Anakin. Her pregnancy—_

_Is her responsibility now._

_The child is as much yours as it is hers._

_She chose to run from me. She chose to flee. … So she told you._

_She trusts me, Anakin, trusts me even when you do not! And more than that, more than Padme—am I not still your friend? Is there not some bond even now, after our years of—of_ brotherhood _, to convince you that we are worried for you? That_ I _am worried for you? Forget the Council, forget the edicts and the war and the Chancellor—_

_The Chancellor is doing what is best for all of us! For the galaxy! And the Council is too blind to see it!_

_I said to forget them! Anakin, let us help_ you _!_

_Leave me, Obi-Wan. I’m not your Padawan any longer. Do not think you can command me._

_Anakin—_

_Farewell,_ Master Kenobi.

The meditation had cleared his head, refocused his attention, but Coruscant has too many memories. Too many connections. The depth of the city holds the billions of beings, tying them together, and Vader draws in a breath as the table behind him shatters down the center.

Perhaps it was dangerous to return.

But Palpatine—Darth Sidious—wants Vader to experience this. To feel all this. And now Sidious has granted him Wilhuff.

Vader has tried to keep Wilhuff away from this part of his life, from this _dangerous_ part of him. He has no doubt that Wilhuff would eagerly understand, and perhaps appreciate it, but all the same, he wishes to maintain this distance. For now.

Forever, if he must.

Sidious certainly knows about Wilhuff, probably much more than Vader knows about him. There is no jealously or hatred from Vader to Sidious, least of all on the question of Wilhuff, but he’s had to process through the possibilities slowly as he’s considered his relationships. That Padme’s defection hurt him is never in question. To love someone and then lose them—not through tragedy or misfortune, but through bitter fighting and irreconcilable differences—is more painful than if he had merely lost her to death or dementia. The pain of his mother’s death is faint, almost entirely faded now, the realities of a galaxy that hates and destroys and _consumes_ the things that are precious, but he can understand that now. With time.

But time has only intensified his feelings about Padme, the hurt and the struggle over her presence in his life, the promise of _new_ life and then the betrayal of her refusal. His child. His _child_. Their child, the product of real, honest love, of when he believed the galaxy could produce good things. Lost to him, now.

He still dreams about them. They must be walking by now, toddling through their early stages of life. In his dreams, he does not know their gender, for he was never told it—sometimes they appear as a boy, sometimes as a girl. _Papa_. _Daddy. Father._

He extends a hand to his side, turning quickly to lift the two halves of the table with the Force and slam them into the opposite wall, screaming as he does. The meditation had settled him. Centered him. But Coruscant will never be a place of peace.

But Wilhuff has come with him.

Yes. Wilhuff. No Padme, this one. He shares Padme’s strength, and her courage, but there is an edge to him that Padme never had. Padme had seen the pain in the universe and ignored it, insisting that it could be covered over with kindness and goodness and gentleness. He had tried to believe that. But the galaxy had proved him wrong. Wilhuff has seen the dangers of the universe and has _conquered_ them, at least those which were visible to him, sharpening himself into steel. Strong, and powerful, and _proud_. It is this that makes him beautiful.

Breathing heavily, Vader considers the destruction of the room around him, reaching up to unlatch his helmet and look out at the world through unfiltered lenses. How is he meant to tell Wilhuff of his knowledge? Of his revelations? Certainly Wilhuff already knows himself, and knows what defines him. But Vader would take that mere knowledge and elevate it to compliment, to glory, to _beauty_. It is only what Wilhuff deserves.

He does not deserve this anger. He does not deserve Vader’s rage. And he does not prompt that—not yet. He does not serve Vader’s Sith nature. And yet Sidious preserves him.

Does Sidious intend to take Wilhuff from him, and further his training?

He cannot dwell on this possibility. He _cannot_. But if the day comes…he will be ready.

\---

“The Bureau has treated you well.”

“Intrigue, mystery, suspicion, and the occasional screaming match? It’s _perfect_.” Rina’s smile is sly and confident, her fingers lingering along the rim of her cup. The café is busy, filled with humans, Munns, and even a Bith in the corner. Wilhuff knows he is out of place, far too provincial for this fast-paced neighborhood, but Rina fits in with a casual ease. Her hair has been cropped even shorter, close to her head, and Wilhuff feels _old_ in comparison. Yet she leans closer, including him in her thoughts, and talks easily of the myriad conspiracies and plots behind the rigor of Imperial routine. So much has only been hinted at, referred to in code names alone, and Wilhuff is grateful that it is Rina’s job to remember all of them. His proficiencies…lie elsewhere.

“Screaming?”

“Oh, we don’t have interrogation chambers in my section. But the captain, he’s a real piece of work. And cute, too—you’d like him.” Rina laughs, making Wilhuff’s eyebrows quirk in surprise. “You’d do him some good, I think. A strong, stable guy like you? It would balance out his irrational behavior in no time.”

Wilhuff blushes slightly, looking to the window before waving away her comments. “I am _occupied_ , Rina.”

“Oh?” Her tone is distinctly inquisitive, but Wilhuff’s hard silence prompts her to laugh again and move on. “So you’ve done well.”

“Still a moff. I would say that’s average, since I was appointed it.”

“You haven’t had any scandals. Eriadu considers that a good thing.” Rina raises an eyebrow, reminding Wilhuff—almost shockingly—of his mother.

“You’ve talked with them?”

“Mm. Not officially. In the Bureau, we aren’t allowed too many personal contacts. Information leakage, you know? But I have my ways.” Rina shrugs, taking another sip from her mug. “Working under you taught me some of that.”

“Which I why I recommended you for the position.” Wilhuff nods. “I hope the demotion wasn’t too rough.”

“It wasn’t the same. This isn’t handling fluff pieces from the press, or monitoring your calls. This is…Wilhuff, this is _real_. I’m handling information that can shape the galaxy. And I _love it._ ” Rina’s shoulders scrunch up around her chin, her delight evident. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t recommend you merely because you’re my cousin. I recommended you because you are good at what you do.”

“I am still grateful.” Rina nodded, standing quickly to lead Wilhuff from the café. Wilhuff is surprised by her speed, but follows close behind, their uniforms prompting the passersby to edge out of their way. Wilhuff is in a commander’s uniform, not a moff’s, and Rina has an odd bluish uniform that reminds Wilhuff of the Alderaan military. As they walk, Rina nods quickly, prompting Wilhuff to increase his pace and walk beside her. “And I like to return favors.”

Wilhuff is quiet, the noise of the Coruscanti sidewalk surrounding them. He waits until they’ve walked a full block, rising a level to walk alongside an expanse of gardens, then sighs to himself as he recollects the contents of Rina’s messages.

“You think I should know about some of these…projects.”

“Some. Most of them are still just pipe dreams, theoretical projects that’ll never see the light of day. A lot of the work we do focuses on security, anyway, and your official status gives you clearance for that sort of thing. Make an official request and that’ll be that.” Rina waves a hand again, glancing to Wilhuff.

“I assume we’re moving because…”

“No one’s following us. But I don’t like to linger one place too long.” Rina nods, laughing slightly. “The training took well, I think. But I wanted to tell you about a few proposals that have crossed my desk.” Without a mug to tap, her fingers tap against each other, a controlled fidget that indicates the pace of her thoughts. “There’s plans. Old, old plans. They don’t come from below—they’re being approved from above, usually, and they just need someone to sign the forms and dot the bubbles. I only get bits and pieces, but—“

“Rina, you’re speaking in circles.”

“If you want to be more than a moff—if you want to wield true power—there is a new potential.” Rina glances behind them again, her brow furrowing as she takes them down a back alley.

“Rina. Please. You haven’t even _told_ me anything, we are unlikely to be assassinated randomly—“

“That is _exactly_ when assassinations happen.” Rina stops suddenly, turning to Wilhuff. “If I tell you—when I tell you, when you accept this, you have to realize—power is not just, just _papers_ and regulations and management, it is _lives_ , Wilhuff, the lives of billions of beings, the fate of entire planets—“

“Rina.” This is the third time Wilhuff has said her name, and this time there is no teasing in his tone. “I’m insulted that you think so little of me.”

“We never _did_ anything like this on Eriadu, Wilhuff.” Her voice quiets, her eyes sparkling and distant. “Eriadu…made sense.”

“I know. And I agree.” In a rare move, Wilhuff reaches out to take her hand, patting it gently with his own. “Eriadu and its people make sense. The rest of the galaxy is less understandable. But that is not going to stop me from doing what I must to shape the galaxy. To _make_ it more understandable.”

“Right. Right.” Rina nods again, blinking quickly as she reclaims her hand. “I don’t know how long it’ll take. But someone, somewhere, is planning something big, bigger than a Star Destroyer or a whole _fleet_ of Star Destroyers, and they’re going to have to divert a lot of resources to accomplish it. The planning is already in place, the construction—as far as I can tell—is probably already begun! But they haven’t finalized staffing plans, I think, I’m not sure—“

“What are you trying to _say,_ Rina Tarkin. Speak.”

“They’re going to need a commander. The Emperor won’t be able to leave Coruscant, not to do this, and Vader—his documents have a different tone. He’s not involved with this, not as an administrator. Moffs are the next level of command, besides the Council or the Senate, and none of them have military experience. They’re going to need _someone,_ Wilhuff, and you need to act soon to make sure that someone is you.”

Wilhuff is quiet, watching Rina compose herself again, and nods slowly as he processes the information. Her tension is odd, surprising for such information, especially since there seems to be such little information to be had. But clearly she believes this is important. And it has been so long since they’ve spoken…much has changed. There must be some potential, some unseen possibility, that she sees here.

“Are you telling me this because you want a Tarkin in command?” Wilhuff asks quietly, pleased by the evident surprise in Rina’s expression. “We are still family.”

“And I wouldn’t hesitate to report you to my superiors if I suspected your disloyalty.” Rina snaps back, holding herself taut. “Family means nothing, at our level.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so.” Wilhuff smiles, sharp and precise, and Rina mirrors the expression with ease. Perhaps Rina is not as bloodthirsty as he is—but she has her claws, sharpened on the Carrion, all the same. “And I’m flattered.”

“Maybe you already knew. About the project. But still, I—“

“No, no. I didn’t know. And I’m glad you told me.” Wilhuff nods slowly, continuing down the alley to lead them back onto the street. “I assume you can’t send me the relevant documents. Could I request them?”

“Not without someone noticing.”

“Does Vader have access?”

“Vader has access to most things. I haven’t seen anything blocked from his access.” Rina confirms, an eyebrow quirked as she studies Wilhuff again. “Are you being cunning?”

“Sly, perhaps. Devious, maybe. With a touch of patience. Always patience.” Wilhuff shrugs easily, holding his hands behind his back. “I thank you for informing me.”

“This will be the only time. I’ll be up for promotion soon, and they’ll be watching me more closely. The name might be useful, but even a stormtrooper can connect Tarkin to Tarkin.”

“Yes. Well.” Wilhuff waits a moment, letting Rina following him into an outdoor lift to start rising another few levels. “The galaxy will be facing its trials soon enough. We need to have a strong hand on the control panel.”

“And if that hand is not yours?” Rina asks in a low voice, her eyes on the floor.

“Then I will have been proved unworthy of the privilege.” Wilhuff replies, equally quiet. “Don’t worry about me, Rina.”

Rina is quiet, the lift whirring as they arrive at their level. “My familial connection may not prevent me from shielding you, should you be arrested…but I am still allowed to worry.”

“If I know my mother, she has you bested on that account.”

“Miretara? Worry? You overestimate that woman.” Rina laughs again, stepping outside as Wilhuff does. The conversation is back on more casual topics, and Wilhuff finds his tension easing—but he is not going to ignore the information Rina’s given him. The galaxy is turning, always turning, and the man with information is the one who is prepared to win.

And with the worrying developments of rebellion…

Yes, perhaps Wilhuff will have to research these mysterious plans in more detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, parts of this were longer than I originally intended...but I don't think anyone will complain.


	18. Chapter 18

Coruscant is not necessarily a prime vacation spot, but there are sections cultivated for relaxation for those who can afford it. Escaping with Vader to another side of the planet, though still in an Imperial facility, is enough to be considered a ‘break’, and Wilhuff is…

Well, he will never truly relax on Coruscant, but this is as close as he will get.

He is smart enough not to bring up Rina’s information to Vader. Not yet, at least. They may have a mutual attraction, and enjoy each other’s company, but their Imperial duties are relegated to a very specific part of their lives. It is almost transformative, to see Vader setting those duties aside and focusing more wholly on Wilhuff himself. The attention is…flattering. Wilhuff finds himself almost embarrassed, at times, under Vader’s attention, and he is hard pressed to return the kind compliments and gentle touches. It is…foreign to his nature.

All the same, he enjoys the silence they maintain, Vader with his eyes half-closed as Wilhuff rubs his hands along those elegantly proportioned shoulders. Vader’s adopted an outfit similar to the cloak and tunic he wore at Wilhuff’s _Intercessor_ acceptance celebration, and Wilhuff is quietly pleased by the chance to treasure those auburn curls, run a finger around the curl of an exposed ear, and simply feel the full heat of Vader without the barrier of the armor. It is not that either of them are _tired,_ necessarily. But the opportunity to spend time without the rush of duty is happily accepted.

“Palpatine seemed pleased. I assume he was the one who sent you to find me?”

Vader shifts, his eyes closed as he leans into Wilhuff’s hands. “It was a…mutual decision.”

“So he is not displeased with me.”

“Displeased? With you? Never.” Vader hums deep in his throat, reaching up a hand to cover Wilhuff’s. “You enjoy more of his favor than you realize.”

“I would never think to impose on a mere brief friendship—“

“Wilhuff. My master sees you as the strongest Imperial force on the Outer Rim. He tells _me_ to take advice from you on certain occasions. You may not be his vizier, or participate in his close retinue, but you are never far from his mind.”

“Oh.” Wilhuf blinks in surprise, leaning forward against the seat to let his hands slide down Vader’s chest. The muscles there are so clearly defined, strong and firm—“I suppose I can recognize the kinship in him, the…similarities in our thinking.”

“He has not told me about your past. If there is anything to tell.” Vader shrugs lightly, placing his hands back in his lap. “But from my own estimation, I can tell that there is a pattern that you both follow, a code to which you strive. For myself, and for my master, I had assumed it was only the Sith that followed such a code. But you have something of it, all the same.”

Wilhuff is quiet, unsure whether the words are meant to compliment, and simply watches the traffic flit outside the tinted window, the Coruscant evening casting deep shadows across the landscape. Eriadu is defined by spaces of wilderness, the long stretches of preserved estates and the cutting edge of technology…no wonder they’re still seen as provincial. Even now, after so long away, Wilhuff is uncertain whether he still qualifies as a native of the planet—his thoughts are more often focused on his ship, or his men, than on his planet.

“The way we choose to live prioritizes our independence.” Vader speaks again, interrupting Wilhuff’s thoughts. Wilhuff straightens to return a hand to Vader’s head, smoothing the soft curls as he listens to the deep, steady voice. “My master—the Emperor—chooses to place his acolytes into positions that force them to adapt. To struggle through, relying only on themselves.”

“And he is right to do so. Now, he is making fewer and fewer public appearances, but this is why he has us. Trusted men, trusted women, who keep the Empire running.”

“I do not only mean politics, Wilhuff.”

“Then—“ Wilhuff stops his hand, exhaling roughly in mild irritation. “Speak, Vader.”

“I mean that occasions like this are unusual. Drawing together, forging a connection—“

“Relationships are not outside the boundaries of normal Imperial procedure.”

“I am not one of your captains, Wilhuff, and I do not need lectures on _procedure_.” For the first time, there is a dangerous edge to Vader’s voice, and Wilhuff pulls away fully to consider him. Vader, too, seems to regret the outburst, and he balls one hand into a fist before relaxing it again. “You find this—us—an acceptable deviation.”

“Acceptable. I would say ‘ _preferable_ ’.” Wilhuff reaches now to rub at his neck, his pulse heavy in his wrist and behind his ears. “Our relationship does not affect our ability to survive. I would hope—that is, if I may be blunt.”

“Please.”

“Affection and emotion are natural portions of our experience. But sentimentality is a dangerous trap. I find you incredible, and impressive, and you are the more important for your individuality. But what I feel about you will never prevent me from doing what must be done, whether it be for the Empire or for your own good. I am old enough to realize that emotion is a useless guide, and it is principle—this ‘code’, if you like—that shows us the better path. Our relationship is not a deviation. Weeping confessions, or martyrdom, or pointless sacrifices: these would be aberrations. I—“ Wilhuff curled a lip, turning to pace behind Vader’s seat. “To think, all these years in politics and I still lack the words to explain.”

“All those years in politics, and never did you engage in scandal.”

“That is mere intelligence, Vader. Temptation is easy. Diligence is hard. I know that beings fall prey to their wants more often than their needs, but building a career is the more useful pursuit.”

“It has made you a moff.” Vader says, his tone more thoughtful, and Wilhuff nods in acceptance.

“You do not need to understand my position entirely. Your life is…different from mine. I know I am unusual, but I have never compromised my core for temporary advantages.”

“Yes. That is what I love about you.” Vader stands suddenly, turning to sweep close to Wilhuff in a single elegant motion. Wilhuff finds himself leaning back, supported by Vader’s hand at his back, but he tilts his chin up in acceptance as Vader traces the line of Wilhuff’s jaw. “Wilhuff.”

“Vader.” Wilhuff leans close again, glad to be done with the topic, but Vader’s finger on his lips prevents him from concluding their conversation with a kiss. Vader’s eyes are distant, even as he holds Wilhuff close, and Wilhuff finally reaches up to remove the finger from his lips before clearing his throat. “ _Vader_.”

“How do you feel about children, Wilhuff?” Vader’s eyes try to meet Wilhuff’s, but Wilhuff is already moving, his body reacting with very real shock to the idea—the very _concept_ , the abstract, remote _possibility_ —of _children_.

Though he does not seek to offend, Wilhuff extracts himself from Vader’s grip, shaking himself once to ensure he is fully present. This is not a conversation in which to half-heartedly participate. After a long moment of heavy silence, Wilhuff offers a slight shrug, clearing his throat again to look to Vader.

Of course there are options—even for men in their position, there are plenty of facilities willing to provide necessary materials, and the problems with genetic manipulation were solved decades ago by the Kaminoans. But it is not the physical requirements that plague Wilhuff, and he knows that these are not what Vader means.

“I have never wanted children.” The words come easily, and he regrets the apparent ease of the statement, but Vader’s expression does not change. Wilhuff coughs self-consciously, glancing back to the window before nodding. “I was an only child. The Tarkins—we are a proud family. But the necessities of genetics are not a lingering pressure. During colonization, good marriages were important. Strong children, large families, they had their place. And—Vader, do not misunderstand. I _love_ my parents. They love me. My uncles, my cousins, it—the system we have designed is important.” In a move that surprises even himself, Wilhuff steps forward again, reaching up to grasp Vader’s shirt.

“But I am my own generation. I am my own _person_. I have no need to produce heirs of my blood: I will make Eriadu herself my child, if that…if that is the metaphor required. Generations of Tarkins have led to _me_ , and—this may sound vain posturing, but the rise of the Empire is no accident. Eriadu has maneuvered into her current position thanks to my experience, and the Emperor’s favor, and I cannot divide my attentions by concerning myself with marriage or children.”

Vader is still quiet, though he reaches to grasp Wilhuff by the waist as he thinks. Wilhuff sighs, relaxing his grip, and runs his hands up further to rest them on Vader’s shoulders, the fabric shifting as they move.

“Besides which, I do not… _get along_ with children. I was a child once, of course. But even if they were of my own blood, I cannot believe I would relate to them in any useful way. A child requires parents—or a parent—who can truly care for them, who can sacrifice if necessary and teach them what needs to be known. I can do this for Eriadu. I cannot foresee myself doing so for a single being.”

Vader smiles faintly, leaning close to kiss Wilhuff’s temple. The contact is slight, almost faint to the touch, but Wilhuff finds it comforting all the same, and he hums in gratitude. “You think a child of yours would be at a disadvantage.”

“They would be raised poorly. No, not poorly—but at a loss. If I chose to have a child, it would be selfish of me and detrimental to them.”

“Wilhuff, how in the name of delicacy do you do it?”

Wilhuff blinks, his smile gone. “What?”

“No matter what you say, you manage to make me love you more.” Vader’s smile strengthens, and Vader himself leans forward to kiss Wilhuff properly before squeezing him tight. Wilhuff finds himself standing on tiptoes, flushed and impressed and _confused_ by Vader’s attention, and he forces himself to focus on Vader’s expression as Wilhuff wraps his arms around Vader’s neck.

“Do you—that is, if you want children, I can—we can discuss—“

“I will not force you into a conversation you do not wish to have. You know your mind, and I approve of that.” Vader kisses Wilhuff again, but Wilhuff will not be so easily dissuaded.

“Do you want children?”

“Wilhuff.”

“Do you want _marriage_?”

“ _Wilhuff_.” Vader tenses, keeping Wilhuff against him, but he studies Wilhuff closely as he nods. “You…know that I was married. Once.”

Wilhuff inhales sharply, moving his gaze from Vader’s face to the collar of his tunic, the dark fabric covering that deliciously tanned skin. Of course he’ll never be able to escape the memories of Amidala—but having never been married himself, he cannot be sure of how Vader wishes to proceed. “That does not tell me whether or not you would seek to marry again.”

“You said you would avoid marriage.”

“That does not mean I do not feel an attachment—an _attraction_ —to you. I—“ Wilhuff wishes to pull away again, but Vader’s grip is strong, and he whines in adolescent petulance as he struggles to explain. “Vader, you must understand that my goal is not to hurt you, but I cannot change my opinions so—so frivolously!”

“I believe you, Wilhuff. Truly. I don’t ask out of some twisted instinct to ‘hint’ at something. If I wanted something from you, I would ask you directly.”

Wilhuff exhales again, nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“When I was married to Padme, I felt…differently about my place in the galaxy. I believed marriage was the ultimate expression of what I sought with Padme.”

“And now?”

“I think differently. I love you. I know that I love you. But I don’t find marriage a necessary expression of that.”

“The links we form are defined now by different standards.” Wilhuff says softly, leaning his head against Vader’s shoulder. “We are men of action. Of strength.” Vader is quiet, his breaths deep and even, and Wilhuff nods slightly as they both relax.

“We will not have long, here on Coruscant.”

“The galaxy will make its demands of us soon enough.”

“Very well.” Wilhuff lets a hand fall to Vader’s waist, feeling the tightness of a belt around the tunic as he smiles. “Then let me make my demands of you now.”

“Oh?” Vader laughs, a hand following Wilhuff’s before Vader scoops Wilhuff up with both arms. “Very well, then. Demand of me, Governor Tarkin. And I will show you what a _willing_ servant I can be.”

\---

Though night on Coruscant is often brighter than the day, Wilhuff and Vader have specifically made their quarters especially dark, isolating themselves within the set of rooms. It is odd to consider Vader _sleeping_ , his body lithe and solid against the bed as he rests on his side. Wilhuff sits on his own side of the bed, watching the movement of Vader’s torso as he breathes. Silence becomes them, welcomes them both. Like the moments between meditating, or the process of slowing one’s heart rate. Breath, in and out. The mind, turning over, processing information. Wilhuff traces a pattern along the sheets, his fingernails digging small trenches in the fine fabric, and finally he turns to set his feet against the floor beside the bed. He is barefoot, and he can hear the slight slap of his skin against the steel as he moves to a small data console. It is sickeningly bright when he powers it up, but it takes only a moment to cycle through startup, finally blinking acceptance as he watches.

Though the screen mostly resembles Wilhuff’s own datapad, his displays on board the _Intercessor_ , there are tiny indicators in the corner that reflect the other user privileges. So this is Vader’s place in the Empire…his link to the network at large. Wilhuff can feel the twinge of worry, of suspicion, that he might be caught in this place, but this is a risk he is willing to take. Rina had tried to tell him what she knew—now it rests on him to do his own research.

Without a file name, or project specifications, it is difficult for him to enact a precise search. He wonders if this is what Cass does, whenever Wilhuff sends him hunting for information in the huge Imperial network, and offers a silent note of gratitude to the galaxy for the man’s work. With some effort, however, he begins to recognize the patterns to which Rina referred, the trace patterns of links and connections not easily collected in a single file. There are documents still sealed with Republic signatures, the Republic Army locks, sign-offs from captains and lieutenants long dead in the Clone Wars. And then there are the more recent documents, the requests for researchers, for crystal mining, documentation from the Jedi Temple now repurposed for Imperial archives. Though Vader has not contributed to their requests, their availability confirms that he has accessed them, and Wilhuff grits his teeth as he reviews the hundreds upon hundreds of pages available.

What can it be that Vader wishes to hide? What exactly is the Emperor organizing? With military power now entirely in the Emperor’s hands, and the resources of the galaxy available—Palpatine could accomplish anything he wished. Rina made a good point: whether Wilhuff seeks to join this effort or frustrate it, he needs to be aware of its dimensions. But the bureaucracy, the utter idiotic depth of _paperwork—_ Wilhuff wants to scream, tracing his way through this mess, but he cannot give in to temptation. As he told Vader, temptation is easy. But to form a career…

And then, just as he isn’t searching for it, a schematic appears. It is more complex than he imagined, spherical and intricate. He’s reviewed ship plans, looked over the designs for Star Destroyers and TIE fighters alike, but this is twice—no, _ten times_ as intricate as any of these. He tries to absorb the information all at once, the dimensions of this—the word ‘project’ is insufficient, this is an enterprise on an entirely new scale. He continues scrolling, scanning, trying to decipher the numbers, and the size of it starts to take shape in his mind.

Large enough to generate a slight gravity, large enough to dwarf even the planned Super Star Destroyers, large enough to rival a _moon_ in a planet’s orbit…Wilhuff gasps despite himself, startled out of his composure as a hand reaches around him to power down the display and break his concentration.

Wilhuff stands suddenly, his eyes still dilated from the light, and he holds out a hand in front of him to prevent anyone approaching. As his eyes adjust, Vader’s form is visible in the shadows, his gaze fixed evenly on Wilhuff as they stand, silent.

“Wilhuff.”

“Vader. I.” For the first time in several years, Wilhuff feels a heavy sensation settle around him, dragging his confidence down into a dark spiral. He’d—He’d gone behind Vader’s back, used his resources without authorization, and yet…Vader’s gaze is steady, unreadable, and Wilhuff blinks rapidly as he tries to think. “I wanted to do some research, without Cass knowing.”

“And without me knowing.”

“It was not intended to _slight_ you.” Wilhuff retorts, squaring his shoulders in irritation. Why should he _not_ do his research? Simply because he takes steps to avoid scrutiny, is this a sign of distrust?

Perhaps it is. But he puts the thought from his mind.

“You have days, days upon weeks upon _months_ to do your research, Wilhuff. Is it so vital that you do it now?”

Wilhuff does not speak immediately, but slowly moves forward, reaching out to grasp Vader’s light sleepwear. It is still a thick fabric, hiding the details of his body, but Wilhuff grasps it all the same, thinking carefully about his response.

“Information is as much a weapon as a blaster or a cannon, Lord Vader.”

“Do you need a weapon to face me, Governor Tarkin?” Though Vader grasps Wilhuff by the arms, keeping him close, his voice is not kind, and Wilhuff sighs softly as he feels the trepidation crawling up his spine.

“Even when I am with you, I cannot ignore my nature. I do not take a weapon to face you—but I remain Moff Tarkin, administrator of a full sector and one of the many moffs Emperor Palpatine has placed in administration of the galaxy. Any opportunity I have for advancement, I take.”

“And a connection to myself, as Palpatine’s apprentice, would certainly be an opportunity.”

Wilhuff sighs again, more harshly even as he reaches up to stroke Vader’s cheek. “Vader. Please.”

“You cannot deny that such a chance—“

“Information is one thing. Men like you are another. Men like you…are much more rare.” Wilhuff emphasizes his words by keeping his hand on Vader’s cheek, running a finger back to trace into Vader’s hair. “Does it matter what I research? You have—You are right not to trust me. I am a politician, after all.”

This does prompt a smile from Vader, and he touches Wilhuff’s chin with one hand. “Scum of the planet’s underbelly, slime of the compost heap—I believe your ‘type’ has quite a few pet names.”

“All the same. I would never act against the Empire. And for the time being, I have no intention to harm you. I…I’m sorry. For disturbing you.”

Vader is quiet again, following the line of Wilhuff’s neck down to where his shirt covers his clavicle. Wilhuff allows the exploration, treasuring the touch, and finally he pulls Vader’s hand away to kiss the fingertips.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Mm. Yes. Yes, you are forgiven.” Vader pulls Wilhuff to him again, nestling him under Vader’s chin. “You are allowed to be ambitious. Even when it threatens my security.”

“Good. But I have no plans to upset the rest of our time.” Wilhuff assures him, moving to pull Vader back to the bed. Though the movement is stilted at first, it soon becomes easier for Vader to lay close to Wilhuff, their breaths syncing in the early stages of sleep. Though Wilhuff’s mind is still racing, still consumed by the image of a huge battle station, he sleeps in Vader’s arms, grateful for the time.

He will play the game required by the Empire. It was Palpatine who taught him the rules, after all—and he has no intention of slipping from his place now. But he is not in competition with Vader, not yet. Perhaps not ever. They are Palpatine’s apprentices in different spheres, and will work to please their mutual master, even while they spend their freer moments in pleasing each other.  

And if Wilhuff can leverage his new knowledge to promote his own goals, then he and Vader may see much more of each other than even Palpatine can predict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about feeeeeeelings.


	19. Chapter 19

After leaving Coruscant, Wilhuff must face the reality of the galaxy once more. Their work is less exciting than the holo-dramas would make citizens believe. Yes, his kidnapping had been a particularly dramatic episode, but much of his time is spent merely in following rotations, in monitoring protocol, responding to the few requests that come his way and fending off the predatory intrigues of the other moffs. In such an environment, he must make his own excitement. But it is a difficult line to walk: he still does not have Vader’s level of access, nor does he enjoy the full confidence of Sheev Palpatine. His research is always in hypotheticals, never certain of the information he can glean.

These limitations drive him to consider avenues outside of Imperial protocol. This is nothing new to him—most of politics is unscripted, perhaps to the surprise of most citizens, but thinking beyond the prescribed methods is within Wilhuff’s accomplishments, for the most part. But as a commander, he also realizes that the pressures of command make different demands of him. Experimenting with the lives of public citizens is one thing: giving orders to members of the military hierarchy is yet another.

And so it is that, yet again, he turns to Cass, pulling the man into side corridors and sending him repeated confirmation reports to check his plans. He has tried to keep an eye on the man, monitoring him for signs of stress or irritation, but Cass—as always—thrives on the tedium of research and reports. Even so, Wilhuff cannot send _everything_ in a mere report, and so he calls Cass into his personal office to consider the real flexibility of the Imperial structure.

Cass refuses to sit, to which Wilhuff offers a token protest and is quietly flattered when Cass refuses _again_ , leaving Wilhuff to sit in his own chair and watch Cass evenly. Cass merely nods, holding his hands behind his back in the usual rest posture, and Wilhuff thinks for a long, quiet moment before speaking at last.

“Lieutenant Cass.”

“Commander Tarkin.” Despite the formality of the scene, Cass smiles faintly as he rocks onto the balls of his feet, and Wilhuff matches the smile as he leans back in his seat.

“I’ve asked a lot of you lately.”

“No more than usual, sir.”

“There’s no need to be modest. I ask a great deal of you nearly every day.”

“Well. That is.”

“As it is.” Wilhuff waves a hand in dismissal, leaning against the arm of his chair. (A rare luxury, that—most Imperial furniture avoids such frills.) “You’re my adjutant, and so perhaps I can make these demands. But if I asked you to do something…beyond—no, no, if I asked you, _ordered_ you directly to go against Imperial regulations, how would you answer?”

For one of the few times Wilhuff can remember, Cass actually expresses his surprise, his eyes widening for a moment as he rocks back again onto his heels. As he formulates a response, Wilhuff sits up again, resting against the desk as Cass begins to speak.

“If it was a direct order, sir, I think I would have to comply. If you simply gave a general directive, it wouldn’t be my first route. But…”

“Speak, Cass.”

“Sir, you haven’t led us astray so far. And perhaps that’s a minor accomplishment, given our duties so far, but I know that your methods aren’t always clear. Just the sheer volume of things you request—it doesn’t always make sense to me, but that’s for you to decide. I trust you.”

Wilhuff finds himself smiling again, somehow impressed by Cass’s directness. “Thank you, Cass. That means more than you know.”

“Is this…sir, am I allowed to know what laws we’re preparing to break?”

Wilhuff barks a short laugh, sitting up straight to shake his head. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Cass, but what about the rest of the crew? The _Intercessor_ staffs several hundred humans at its highest capacity, and I may plan an operation _slightly_ larger than just you.”

Cass hesitates this time, his mouth pursing as he thinks. “The crew have worked under you for at least a galactic year now, sir, even those on the most recent rotations. The stormtrooper garrisons are less reliable, perhaps, but the pilots and captains—those are your men. You’ve participated in our drills, watched our routines, and…this is just me, sir, speaking from my own perspective, but I would think most of them would rely on your wisdom first before quibbling about rules and regs. Your bridge staff certainly would be behind you.” Cass nods once, blinking quickly. “We do have our limits, however. And I am not above mutiny, should the situation require it.”

Wilhuff stands, smiling more sharply as he faces Cass across the desk. “A comfort. But barring straight up rebellion, you think I could get the support of my staff?”

“Well—yes, sir, if you require it.” Cass steps forward, reaching forward to tap a finger against Wilhuff’s desk. “But you should know, sir, if you’re truly planning an operation, there are…’avenues’ to do this sort of thing.”

“Avenues.” Wilhuff repeats, a note of intrigue in his voice.

“You know. Things got shuffled after the wars, but we have…the security people. The Bureau.”

A light of recognition dawns in Wilhuff’s eyes, and he smiles slowly as he folds his arms across his chest. “Is this something you discovered in idle research, Lieutenant?”

“It’s just part of the job, sir. Everyone knows the security…group does their own work, somewhat outside the bounds of normal military work. As a moff, you should be able to submit a request for an additional agent, or resources, or…something.”

Cass’s discomfort is clear, and Wilhuff nods once before waving Cass off. “And it would make you more comfortable to consider someone _else_ breaking the rules and regs?”

“Not to be dramatic, sir, but it’s more their job than mine.”

“I’ll consider it, then.” Wilhuff nods again, sitting back in his seat. “You may go, Cass.”

“Sir, if we’re going to be in action—should there be some warning? Should I prepare something for the staff?”

Wilhuff hums, finally shaking his head. “I think this is one thing I should prepare myself, Lieutenant. I do recognize your concerns, and I appreciate your input. But you’ve made it clear that you’d like to remain uninvolved in my fanciful imaginings, and so you will be.”

Cass watches him for a moment, considering the oddity of their conversation, then finally nods in return. “I’m not sure whether or not to be grateful, but as your adjutant, sir: thank you.”

Wilhuff waves a hand again in dismissal, watching Cass exit the office at last, then turns to his personal datapad to pull up a short list of personal contacts. The Imperial Security Bureau: so simple, so nondescript. And yet Cass wouldn’t even say the full name of the organization. Oh, how easy it was to inspire terror, even in such a short amount of time! Palpatine’s imprint was clear on the work of the ISB, but Wilhuff wouldn’t need to go so far up the chain of command to craft his request. No, Rina had assumed that their brief familial connection was finished: but there is at least one more favor he can request.

He just has to be certain that the risk of all this obfuscation will be worth it.

+++

The bridge is alive with action, lights blinking across the pit, and Wilhuff moves forward as the ship tries to execute a sharp turn. The target of their chase, a small smuggler ship, darts through space with evident skill, and Wilhuff barks orders in a futile attempt to keep their tracking aligned with the smaller ship’s movement. Every time the _Intercessor_ turns, another panel lights up with warning lights, and Wilhuff tries to manage the fifteen different feedbacks as he stands atop the bridge catwalk. Cass has remained behind him, lingering at the tactical display, and Wilhuff is glad for the space as his eyes follow the ship.

“This is _insolence_ , Captain, I want these people _captured_.”

“Sir, with all due respect, we have the firepower to simply shoot them down—”

“I’m sure that would be an improvement, but we have to be able to _follow_ them first. I will not have my staff waste their time firing into space merely because we are too incompetent to aim!”

The anger is clear on the captain’s face, but he does not respond, and Wilhuff faces out from the bridge with the determination he has cultivated for years. It may only be one ship, but it is one of only a handful he’s allowed into his system. And he is not about to take his responsibilities lightly.

“Sir, they’re angling to jump!”

“Then prepare the engines to jump, Pilot, it is not that hard to figure out.”

“But—we can’t predict, sir, there’s several routes—”

“I have worked on this ship long enough to understand the _basics_ of hyperspace travel, Pilot, and I am telling you to _prepare this ship to jump._ ” Wilhuff emphasizes again, bringing the full intensity of his gaze onto the questioning pilot. She quavers, but blinks quickly, hunching in her chair as he continues. “Calculate their most likely vector based on location and angle and do your best to follow.”

“We might end up leaving the sector, Governor.” It is Cass now who responds, calling from the tactical display. Wilhuff merely shrugs, holding his head high.

“A proper moff will understand the need to retain tight security around one’s shipping lanes. If someone is upset by a minor incursion by our ship, that is their concern, not mine.”

The bridge falls quiet for a moment, lulled into a false peace as the computers follow the smaller ship, and finally there is a low hum that roars to life as the _Intercessor_ flings herself into hyperspace, only a half-second after the smugglers make their jump. The ISD is the first model on which Wilhuff has ridden where the shock of the jump is almost imperceptible, and he smiles to himself as he remains standing, firmly planted on the catwalk of his bridge. Let the other moffs complain. He has an impeccable security record, and he knows regulation through and through. He is not about to slip up now.

“Sir, preparing to revert!”

“So soon?” The words are more uncertain than he intends, and he coughs once to cover the slip. “Of course—they would want to stay in the Outer Rim, likely to slip into the Hutts territory. Nearest system?”

As he finishes the statement, the ship reverts, and the bridge is again eerily quiet as the single navigation officer nods. “Geonosis.”

The statement is slightly redundant, as the huge angry redness of the planet appears above the viewports. That they would revert so close is not _that_ odd—pilots have done it before, and with much smaller margins—but it is not the closeness of the planet nor the sight of the smuggler’s ship that shocks the bridge into silence.

In orbit above the planet, huge loops and arcs sketch the rough skeleton of a sphere, a few ships visible shuttling from one arc to the other. Wilhuff tries not to stare—this was what he expected, it’s what he _wanted_ to find—but the sight of it still shocks him. The rest of the bridge is clearly experiencing the same sensation, though he hasn’t warned any of them and the shock must be doubled—no, tripled. The ship drifts, tugged by the gravity of the planet, and in front of them the smuggler ship has also disengaged its engines to fall into a gentle orbit. No one says anything for a long moment, the image outside their viewports consuming them entirely.

In a rush, Wilhuff’s comm begins to ping rapidly, three channels lighting up at once as he tries to handle the rush. Cass behind him stumbles at the sounds, scrambling to rectify the channels, but Wilhuff beats him to it as he plucks the comm from his ear and scrolls the channels. Linking his comm to the bridge’s auditory system, Wilhuff listens closely, unafraid to let his staff hear this.

First, the ISB agents: “The exercise is finished as you specified, Governor Tarkin. We’ll be seeing you.”

Another channel, and another voice is audible, cackling darkly over the faintest static: “Well, Wilhuff. This _is_ an unexpected pleasure.”

Wilhuff scrolls again, wincing as a rough, chattering voice babbles at them in an alien tongue. He realizes after a moment that it must be the Geonosian king—or duke, or governor, or whatever they have now under the purview of the Empire. He flicks the channel back, ignoring the king’s outraged claims, and waits as the cackling laughter ceases and the rasping voice continues.

“You’ve played your game well, Wilhuff.”

“No game, my Emperor. Merely a short exercise. I do have to say, the _Intercessor’s_ crew are top-notch. I am grateful for their assignment.”

He can feel the attention of the bridge crew shifting to him, the surprise evident in their eyes, but he ignores them in favor of focusing on the viewports, studying the skeleton in avid fascination.

“Oh, Wilhuff. I have missed you. Isn’t she beautiful? Does the shape of her excite you?”

The voice is odd, twisting with an emotion something like lust, but Wilhuff knows this is not the intensity of an aged lecher. No, this is a man with a lust for raw power, his desire layering into his words as if he and Wilhuff are the only two witnesses to this display. Wilhuff merely nods slowly, hands behind his back as the ship falls into orbit, and he considers his response carefully as the bridge crew adjust.

“It has great promise.”

“But delivers little? I know, I know she doesn’t look like much now. But you’ve seen the plans, haven’t you?” Palpatine laughs again, rough and hacking. “We have men working on these things. My Empire is a resourceful one, after all. The station…” He trails off, his tone thoughtful, and he finally hums over the comm. “I would have you visit me, Wilhuff. Come to Coruscant.”

“If that is what you with, my Emperor.”

“It is. Correction: come to _Naboo_.” Palpatine’s tone returns to its lighter amusement, and Wilhuff raises a single eyebrow as he listens to the shift. “I would not remove the _Intercessor_ from the Outer Rim again. Come to Naboo. I will see you there, Moff Tarkin.”

Wilhuff is not ignorant: he knows that Palpatine plays his own games for his own reasons. And he knows that calling him ‘Moff Tarkin’ now is just another feature of this game. But he will not disobey an order.

“Governor—Moff—” The staff in the pit are struggling to find words, to address him properly, but Wilhuff does not correct them. “Sir. Should we prepare to make the jump?”

“Wait.” He holds up a hand, preventing them from acting. “I would not wish to overtax the hyperspace engines. We will wait.” The bridge hesitates, but they follow his orders. He will not disobey. But he has not been given a direct order about remaining in the system for a little while longer.

Besides, if this is the station destined to shape the course of the Empire, he would like to know all he can.


	20. Chapter 20

Naboo is still a peaceful world, for all the changes wrought on the galaxy. Yes, the lanterns have been removed from the streets, and much of the extraneous foliage has been shorn back to make way for the AT-STs, but the architecture is still proud and grand, leaving open spaces and tall arches supported by elegant columns. Wilhuff has chosen to come here alone, and the space is frighteningly large. On Eriadu, space is always occupied by people, someone moving to one place or another. On Naboo, they have the space to spare, and the residents refuse to come outside.

This was the planet where Padme Amidala found her feet. This is the place that created her, that shaped her. Was she like this place, external beauty with none of the strength to protect it? What did Vader find in her?

Wilhuff should not be thinking about these things. Wilhuff is meant to be thinking about his meeting with Emperor Palpatine, with _Sheev Palpatine_ , the man who has shaped the galaxy into…something else.

He is meant to be thinking about the station. It doesn’t have a name in his mind, simply the _station_ , and he is unsure what he is meant to see. Palpatine has vision. He has _a_ vision, that is clear, and it involves secrecy and concealment and misdirection. This is not politics. This has not been politics for some time.

There is no one here, not even a stormtrooper escort, and Wilhuff is disappointed to find that this is all it takes for him to fall into pointless navel-gazing. When he enters the darkened villa, curtains drawn across huge windows, he finds there are only two seats prepared. Palpatine is already seated, his robes spilling into the shadows around his seat, and Wilhuff moves forward carefully to stand beside the remaining chair.

“My Emperor.”

“Wilhuff.” Palpatine smiles wide, lifting his head to study Wilhuff closely. “Always so prompt.”

Wilhuff smiles back, reaching out to place a hand against the back of the chair. “The planet is beautiful.”

“Naboo is…an archaic place, dedicated to failing processes. But I retain some loyalty to the place all the same.” Palpatine sighs gently, pointing to the seat opposite him. “Sit.”

Wilhuff does as he is told, folding his legs as he sits. He’d forgotten how changed Palpatine has become, how aged and wrinkled he is now. He assumes that’s why they’re seated in the dark—to disguise the transformation for a little while longer. Wilhuff waits, letting the silence flow in around them, and finally steeples his fingers in front of him.

“You have plans for the station.”

“Plans which I have discussed with no one.”

“No one…besides Lord Vader?” Wilhuff raises an eyebrow, prompting Palpatine to smile. So at least he knows he still has Palpatine’s interest, if nothing else.

“Hmm. Lord Vader again. He told me of your little…indiscretion on Coruscant. An odd occasion, that. He barely saw reason to mention it.” Palpatine nods, his gaze fixed on Wilhuff. “I begin to see your methodology.”

“My methodology.” Wilhuff repeats, unsure of what Palpatine means but hesitant to either confirm or deny his suppositions. Let Palpatine explain himself first.

“Yes, my dearest Wilhuff.” Palpatine laughs once, relaxing back into his seat. “I realize that much has changed since we were acquainted. You may not…trust me, entirely. You may not feel as close to me as you once did. But in ingratiating yourself with Vader, there are new avenues open to you. A shame you had to be caught—but I doubt even your best attempts would have slipped past Vader’s attention. You got the information you needed from his console. You got yourself to Geonosis, to witness with your own eyes. Your enterprise has been very impressive, Wilhuff. Inspiring, even.”

“I—You flatter me. Sheev.” Wilhuff nods deeply, mimicking a bow. Never mind that his connection to Vader has little to do with his various researches. It is more profitable that Palpatine believe this, rather than lingering on alternatives. But they have not gone to the opera, or attended one of Naboo’s mask-plays. Palpatine is interviewing him more directly. Is he—

Perhaps Wilhuff truly did overstep his bounds with that little adventure near Geonosis.

Well, if he had to learn his limitations, better he get this over with now.

“Wilhuff, are you afraid of me?”

“A man would be a fool _not_ to be afraid of you, my Emperor.”

A smile crosses Palpatine’s face again, and he raises his gaze to the high ceiling before nodding. “You enjoy working with Vader? You feel comfortable giving him orders?”

“What is this _for_ , my Emperor? If you want proclamations of loyalty, I will give them. If you want me to compose a ballad, or sonnet, I will need some time, but I will do it. If you wish me to resign my position and take up a…a religious order in the backwoods of some Outer Rim planet, then I will do it, but please, simply _tell me_.”

“I am debating, Wilhuff. You know about things you should not. And so yes, it is rather a choice between silencing you, or forcing you to silence others.”

Wilhuf nods slowly, cognizant of the ramifications. Palpatine will not be taking chances. “At the risk of sounding impertinent, my Emperor, this is not a decision I can make for you. Whatever arguments I make, they will make little difference against the realities of my service record. I am still, at the root of things, a civilian politician. Having blundered into a military endeavor of this size….I may be out of my depth.”

Palpatine is quiet for a long moment, and Wilhuff realizes with a start that he can barely even hear the man _breathe_. Unlike his usual rasping and wheezing, Palpatine is silent, and Wilhuff can do nothing but wait.

“And yet despite your inexperience, you are the only one of my moffs who has found this lead and followed it so intently. To use ISB agents in your little ruse, to avoid involving your staff? This is work I can appreciate. And you have your own strengths. I have thousands of men who know their military work. But can I trust them to use it properly? Weakness is not a feature of my empire, Wilhuff, but I have tried to culture a delicacy in you. The refinement of your own planet, the odd flourishing of culture and taste in the midst of a planet most believe to still be a colony. Vader is a fist, a striking force.” Palpatine quiets, tapping his fingers against each other, then finally stands to display his full height.

“My decision is made, Wilhuff.”

“Because of Vader?”

“Because of _you_.” Palpatine nods. “Not only did you investigate the faintest rumor of the project, without my finding out, you have pursued the first strands of uprising and rebellion where you encountered them. You have impressed me, Wilhuff, even with all your time away.”

“My Emperor—”

“I am going to appoint you my first High Moff, Wilhuff.”

“A…High Moff.”

Palpatine smiles wide, his teeth sharp. “You distrust me.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, I would be a fool not to.”

“I do have the authority to create positions. And we haven’t had a proper title ceremony in some time.” Palpatine laughs again, quieting to a soft hum. “Consider it a training position, if the thought of the authority frightens you.”

“It does not _frighten_ me, my Emperor, but I would not waste your time or your resources on a poor investment.”

Palpatine nods again, raising a hand to wave away the words. “The creation of the position will allow me to give you access to the details of the project. Your security access will be shifted, of course, and you will have a slightly greater investment in similar projects. And you will need to coordinate more closely with Vader on matters of Imperial security.”

Wilhuff considers the words carefully, thinking over the ramifications. Yes, he cannot deny that the security access would be gratifying. And to become more involved with ‘the project’—the station as it takes shape—is exciting. And _Vader_.

“You are too kind to me, my Emperor.”

“I am giving you your due.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then you are replaced.”

Wilhuff exhales slowly, closing his eyes before standing to face Palpatine more evenly. “Then do I have a choice but to accept?”

“No.”

“Then I am gratified to be honored in this way, my Emperor.”

Palpatine nods carefully again, moving forward at last to grasp Wilhuff by the shoulders. “Yes. Yes you are. And your work begins immediately.”

“My Emperor?”

“Naboo is a fascinating planet. It has produced me, and yet at the same time, it harbors the traces of Amidala. Her strength in the Senate is still discussed at meeting: I want you to research the place, look into the details of Amidala’s defection and her disappearance.”

Wilhuff tenses, watching as Palpatine releases him and moves away. “You want me to find her.”

“If you happen to find her in your research, then so be it.”

“And if I happen to be the one who brings her in, rather than Vader? Would that not leave his training…unfinished?”

“Let _me_ be the one to judge his training.” Palpatine snaps, shooing Wilhuff away at last. Wilhuff offers a deep bow, and carefully backs out of the room, returning to the outer plaza to stand in the light of the sun. This has been an interaction defined by snappishness and incivility, not the usual gracious dance of elegant men. But Palpatine has never approached Wilhuff in that way, not as others had. Palptine is kind and polite when the situation requires it, but as Emperor, there are very _few_ situations that truly do require it. Wilhuff understands quite well what it means to be the servant of an Emperor, and he accepts that the curtness Palpatine portrays is really an expression of power. And, after it all, he now enjoys Palpatine’s confidence. Palpatine’s _trust_. After the discussion over Vader, there had been some concerns.

 _Vader_. What would he think to know of the changes? Would he approve all of this plotting and planning, this conniving and secrecy? He does not have much of a choice: he obeys any order Palpatine gives, just as Wilhuff would. And yet Wilhuff cannot help but wonder.

A chance to work closely with Vader again would be gratifying. Bu Wilhuff will not allow his personal feelings to change his course. He will do as Palpatine instructs, and find the links in the web that may still be lurking under the surface.

And if his work happens to reveal ever more about Vader in the process…

Well, part of being a good politician means learning discretion. Both for Vader’s sake—and for the whole of the galaxy. Wilhuff is handling secrets now, perhaps even more than Rina or the ISB itself. Perhaps this ‘situation’ with Vader was a mistake, getting so close to things, allowing distractions to influence his thoughts. But at the end of things, Wilhuff and Vader still agree on the crucial points. Their loyalty to Palpatine is a shared one. They are two parts working in unison, no matter what their affiliation may be outside of ‘duty’ or ‘protocol’.

Even as he reviews the concept, Wilhuff closes his eyes simply to imagine the image of Vader himself. Perhaps…perhaps there may be time for a slight diversion. Before he starts his research in earnest.

Though they may both be loyal men, they are still men and not droids. Yes: a moment of pleasurable company may do them both some good.


	21. The Cusp of Great Change

“You’re not serious.”

“It. Well. It’s not like we were under orders at the time, and—”

“You thought a Senator would just be _fine_ without a security escort? Without any sort of confirmation of her location, or a routine check of her cargo?”

“Senators have that privilege! You know, diplomatic immunity, protected data.”

“I _know_ what Senators enjoy, captain, I’ve had to deal with them for _years_ already.” Wilhuff turns away from the table, reaching up to press a finger against his brow. This is not a convenient way to extract information, and it is not _enjoyable_. But on Naboo, it seems, nothing is done easily, or conveniently, or well.

“The people loved her. Still love her. I couldn’t just order a search—”

“The woman was clearly pregnant, was that not a factor?”

“Her condition—the pregnancy wasn’t important.”

“Wasn’t important. A high-risk agent, a known insurrectionist, and her pregnancy _wasn’t important_.”

“You can’t—” The man at the table stands, anger suddenly etching lines of intense fury across his features, but the trooper beside him places a hand on his shoulder to shove him back into his seat. “She wasn’t an insurrectionist. She made her complaints calmly, clearly, and with proper diplomatic procedure.”

“That may be.” And in truth, the art of diplomacy does require some of Wilhuff’s admiration. But her refusal to see the way of things is more irritating in the moment. “You realize that your incompetency makes you complicit in her treason.”

“It was not _treason_.”

“All the more reason to include you in the sweep. If you support her in her aims—”

“Then you will have to include all of Naboo in your work, and not everyone will be as cooperative as I am. Padme Amidala was a good queen and a great senator, and we will not let her name be tarnished.” The man does not stand, but he faces Wilhuff now with the ferocity of a jungle beast, contained only by the necessity of polite conversation. Wilhuff realizes this in him only slowly, and is forced to confront the reality of the situation.

He may not be afraid of Naboo, but that does not mean it can be conquered so easily.

“Moff Panaka doesn’t seem to share your feelings.”

“Moff Panaka is a boot-licking toady who is more concerned about the honorifics in front of his name than the concerns of his planet.” The captain sneers, leaning back again in his chair, and Wilhuff accepts the evaluation with a short nod. The man isn’t _wrong_ about Panaka, but he hasn’t learned to keep those opinions to himself. Thus it will be up to Panaka to handle him, if the situation ever arises.

“Don’t leave the planet.” Wilhuff orders as he leaves the room, his stormtroopers following close behind as he moves with quick, long strides through the outer corridor. He takes his responsibilities very seriously, and though he could be called old-fashioned, he prefers to do this in person.

Despite Palpatine’s assurances, Wilhuff had chosen not to attend whatever ceremony the man had designed, and the entire affair has been rather muted. The new security access is a boon, of course, and Cass is certainly aware of the updates. If the staff of the _Intercessor_ haven’t realized it, then Wilhuff would be gravely disappointed in them. But their work is still the same as always, even if their detour to Naboo is longer than might be expected.

Fortunately, Panaka has not been involved, and Wilhuff is confident now that if he were questioned, his new credentials would smooth over any irritations. The dimensions of his role are, if anything, even _more_ nebulous than his last: the moffs are related to sector governance, yes, but men like Brennan have different roles in security, not tied to a specific sector. The thing uniting them is possession of a Star Destroyer—but they are not naval staff, and the crews of their ships are military men. And now a ‘High Moff’? For a man who involves himself so intensely in other matters, Palpatine has left this matter vague and unclear.

All the more reason for Wilhuff to forge a strong system of his own, at least. Though he may not know the details of the troopers beside him, they respond quickly and proficiently, and he is pleased to have them nearby. It is a long walk from the garrison offices to his shuttle, but this gives him time to review the results of his work, and bemoan the lack of progress.

Vader’s inability to find the former Senator Amidala is no reflection of the man’s deficiencies. The woman made her escape perfectly, cleanly slipping through the security nets of two separate sectors and disappearing into the areas of space less tightly patrolled. Certainly, the chaos of the war and the death throes of the Republic were trying times indeed: but the records are sloppy, memories have faded, and old loyalties still linger. The process is slow, and the citizenry are uncooperative.

The longer Wilhuff works here, the more he realizes the need for the proposed battle station.

The imagery alone is powerful. He can testify to this himself. And though the Emperor has made his move, the Senate remains an influential piece of his administration, one which needs to be tightly corralled into cooperation. Once the station is complete, it will not merely present a resource for the Imperial administration—it will be a corrective, a guiding hand, keeping groups in line while the Empire organizes control. It is not perfect, and it will take time. But the vision is growing clearer, as Wilhuff works.

And yet Amidala had resisted this. Her few publications are interesting, even though much of her data is off-planet or inaccessible by him. (No testament to his security access this time: even with the years intervening, the encryptions have proved impossible to break.) It comes as a surprise for Wilhuff to learn that her voting bloc tended to include Mon Mothma, and his memories of his kidnapping mingle with the information. Their lives have not been so different: young people involved in politics, fighting for a cause, championing their goals. And yet Amidala has disappeared, Mothma has fallen on the losing side, and Wilhuff has been catapulted to success.

What device orchestrates these twists of fate? What playwright is organizing their lives? Certainly Palpatine is devious and powerful, but even he could not coordinate all this.

Could he?

Wilhuff shakes his head, tutting to himself as the shuttle arrives back at the _Intercessor._ Her calming bulk is solid and steady, his new home over these past months, and he smiles to see the clean elegance of her corridors. However, his smile lasts only a moment, for those corridors are not empty.

No, there is Cass running down the hallway toward him. _Running_. Immediately Wilhuff is alert, and Cass comes up to him breathing heavily and nodding quickly.

“Sir, we were trying to reach the shuttle—there’s requests coming through, communiques from Lord Vader, and he—”

“Lord Vader? But he’s—” _He’s busy_ , is Wilhuff’s first response, _on the other side of the galaxy._ “And he wants to reach me?”

“He’s—” Cass winces, folding his arms across his chest. “I explained your role. Your duties on the planet. Since he made no formal request, I had no authority to communicate it to you, and you were rather expressive about your intentions for your work.”

“Yes. Yes, there is that.” Wilhuff exhales slowly, nodding. “And you informed him of my position?”

“I sent him the documents.”  

“And his response?”

“He…wasn’t very clear.” Cass glances to his feet, backing away. “I’m sorry, sir. He wanted to speak directly to you.”

“You did fine, Cass. Vader has been…decent to us, for a very long time, without any need for him to do so. But we forget that he works outside of the Imperial hierarchy. Even my position is more familiar than his—he has no analogue, no equal.”

“You might consider yourself that equal, sir.”

Wilhuff allows himself a genuine smile, facing Cass with new fondness. “I appreciate all your efforts, Cass. But I am here now. Let me take the call on the bridge, and we will sort this out once and for all.”

“ _Thank you_ , sir.” Cass says with evident relief, prompting Wilhuff to shake his head as he follows Cass to the nearest lift and begins the long ride up the central column. He’s seen Vader’s moods before, and flatters himself to think he was sensitive to their origins, but the rest of the Imperial army has no expectation of such familiarity. Cass has tolerated much on Wilhuff’s behalf, but even he has a breaking point.

Which does beg the question: what could have inspired Vader’s temper to such a point that he had terrified Cass like this?

As Wilhuff strides out onto the bridge (oh that familiar, well-worn haven!), his staff turn almost as one to face him, and he is impressed by the attention in their eyes. Had Vader’s wrath been visible to all of them? Good for them to see the power of the Empire’s hidden blade, but there are limits to this sort of thing. Fear is good, but in moderation.

“Cass?”

“He closed the channel.” Cass reports quietly, remaining near the tactical table as he scrolls the channels. “Would you like me to initiate a call?”

Wilhuff pauses, considering the options, then looks again to the pit staff. Their hands flicker over their consoles, still running through routines, but there is a charge to the air that had only arrived with him. What is there to gain from hesitation?

“Do it.” Wilhuff confirms, clasping his hands behind his back as he settles into his place. His _rightful_ place. Whatever Vader wants, Wilhuff is still a commander here, and that comes with all the authority the Empire can confer.

The faintest buzz of static reveals that the channel has been reopened, and Wilhuff adopts a faint smile as he speaks. “Darth Vader!”

There is no hologram at first, but a voice rings out from the darkness, heavy and edged with emotion. “ _High Moff Tarkin_.”

Wilhuff bows shortly, accepting the title. “You’ve been bothering my men.”

Now the hologram appears, Vader’s mask appearing in huge, brilliant blue before the focus resolves and displays Vader in full. “I sought an audience.”

“Consider me flattered. Now, what could possibly be so urgent that you would pull me from my duties?”

Vader is quiet for a moment, taking stock of the situation, and Wilhuff can sense the frustration in him. This is not the Emperor’s guard dog—this is a beast, barely cognizant of its chains. “This is not your place.”

“My _place_?” Wilhuff actually takes a step back, shocked by the utter _gall_ of the statement. “Lord Vader, my _place_ is wherever I choose to be. The Emperor has requested me here.”

“He seeks to—” Vader turns away, pacing away from the transmitter, and Wilhuff waits for him to return before speaking again.

“Our work is complementary. I am getting closer to real results.”

“While I am given the busy work of tracking down meaningless Jedi.”

Wilhuff raises a hand, brushing aside the concept. “They still pose a threat.”

“They are not a real threat. The power of the Force is mighty indeed, but without coordination or support—”

“My job is not to convince you of your duties. Speak your mind.”

“Let me help you.”

“It is not my decision to make.”

“Are you a commander or not, Governor Tarkin?” There is still that edge, that bite to Vader’s tone, and Wilhuff stops himself from responding in kind. Vader has played right into Wilhuff’s pride, and forced him to confront it. Does the man have the ability to search him from such a great distance? Is the Force somehow guiding them now?

All these rhetoricals, all these questions, and still no satisfactory answer. Wilhuff exhales slowly, fully aware of the attention of his crew, and faces Vader evenly.

“You know that I seek Amidala.”

“And that your search will only end in frustration.”

“For me, Lord Vader, or for yourself? I am _aware_ of the delicacy of the situation, and am flattered to be involved.” Wilhuff tilts his head slightly, chasing the less-desirable path. “Given that I had to chase down the battle station’s plans on my own, I think I have demonstrated my qualifications for this work.”

“The battle station—” Vader turns away, the signal distorting, and Wilhuff straightens again to keep himself steady. Certainly the memory of Amidala cannot be so pressing. This cannot be it.

But if it is…

Vader had spoken of _marriage_.

Perhaps Wilhuff has made a mistake here.

“Lord Vader, the former Senator Amidala is a valuable prize regardless of your interactions with her. She is a dissident, a known agitator, a brilliant rhetorician and a skilled politician. We cannot allow another Dooku to emerge in our midst. My kidnapping—”

“Amidala was not involved with your kidnapping.”

“But it was _inspired_ by people like her. We still haven’t found ‘Apoidea’, remember. Even that name was disused after only a few months. These people are smart, and they know we are watching.”

“These people? These are not Separatists, Governor, this is—”

“This is a _rebellion_.” The dirty, disgusting word. Terrorism was one thing. Revolution, small-scale revolts, even protests and voting blocs, all this was tenable within the limitations of the Empire. But rebellion meant a destruction of things, a tearing down of all that Wilhuff had built. His family, his planet—Rina. The battle station.

“You should not be involved in this work.”

“Then come to Naboo and take it from me, Lord Vader.” Now, Wilhuff has found his bite. He responds in kind to Vader’s jabs. And Vader’s ire is rising.

“The Jedi—”

“The Jedi are nothing! They are an extension of an archaic age, just like this entire _planet,_ and you exist merely as their counterpart to destroy them. You have realized the fullness of your purpose, but it does not give you the right—”

“The Jedi created me, Padme Amidala created me, and I _demand_ the right to complete my training as I see fit.” Vader is moving now, reaching up in one swift motion, and Wilhuff takes a step back as Vader tears the mask from his face and tosses it into the darkness behind him. The face he knows, has known, has seen on such rare occasions, now broadcast in full hologram blue—

Behind him, Cass gasps.

The entire bridge has frozen, and Wilhuff is unsure why.

“If I am to realize _anything_ , Governor Tarkin, I will destroy Amidala myself.”

“Why did you contact me.” Wilhuff says lowly, reining in his temper. Vader inspires it in him, provokes this, and already his heart is racing.

“I will _find_ Amidala.”

“This is not a bounty, this is not a single target for you to find and destroy, this is a _network_ of _rebellion_ —” Blast the word. “—and you will _need me_ to do this.”

“You want to find them all. I have no such concerns.”

“Then maybe you should _develop_ such concerns, and return to me once you realize the scope of your Emperor’s plans.” Wilhuff bites, reaching up to close the channel himself. As he stands, the comm in his hand, he realizes he is breathing heavily, and still the bridge does not move. Lights flicker, an occasional beep sounds, but the human component of the bridge is frozen in silence, focused on Wilhuff as he tries to think.

Cass approaches carefully, his tread silent against the deck plates. “Sir?”

“Refuse further communication. If he seeks to meddle, let him do so in person.”

“Sir, do you…” Cass shrinks back, uncertain of his role, and Wilhuff closes his eyes to breathe slowly before facing Cass again.

“Speak.”

“You know who that is.”

“Darth Vader.” _Irritant, provocateur, and Sith Lord_. “Commander of the _Executor_ , apprentice to the Emperor—”

“That was Commander Skywalker.” Cass swallows, his shoulders hunched. “In the war—he was a Jedi. The Jedi were made generals, he commanded—”

Wilhuff holds up a hand, stunning Cass back into silence as Wilhuff turns to look again at his pit crew. They face him, unblinking, but the shock of recognition is still clear in their eyes. Of course. All these men and women, they served during the war, or were in training. They would have heard. On Eriadu, the communication was less forthcoming, the details obscured. Even then, the Republic had mistrusted him.

“And?”

“Sir?” Cass blinks in shock.

“I realize it must have been a surprise—the Jedi are meant to be dead—but that… _man_ is no longer a Jedi. He serves the same Empire we do.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Commander _Skywalker_ , he’s—he was a hero, he is a hero, he should be—”

“ _Lieutenant_.” Wilhuff is being harsher than he needs to be. But his tone quiets Cass all the same, and Wilhuff moves past him to return to the tactical table and the comfort of the charts and data.

A network. He’s been focused on Amidala, like Vader, but he’s neglected her network. Any good politician has connections, and he already knows some of Amidala’s. But to escape to cleanly, she would have needed _someone_. Something. Some kind of connection, some link.

If there is a link, Wilhuff can exploit it. Amidala cannot be perfect every waking moment.

And when she slips, he will find her.

+++

For all the insults Wilhuff has developed about the planet, Naboo truly is a beautiful world. The darkness of space seems brighter, with the delicate blue of Naboo’s oceans beneath the hull of the _Intercessor_. And instead of seeking refuge on the bridge, as he is wont to do, Wilhuff has found himself a side room, part of the barrack levels with an excellent view of the planet, and he sits.

He thinks.

He has learned not to foster regret, but he regrets snapping at Vader. The man was clearly in distress, and Wilhuff had only intensified it. Then again, Vader should know better than to call when in the throes of some emotional turmoil. Their discussion had accomplished nothing and gone nowhere. The search is still stymied. Wilhuff sighs to himself, rubbing at a temple, and puts the thought from his mind.

Commander Skywalker. The name was enough to provide all the information Wilhuff could have wanted. Anakin Skywalker, pride of the Jedi Order, an up-and-coming commander with the energy necessary to inspire millions. The images confirm it: the man is the same. And though no one on the crew has said anything to him, Wilhuff knows they still reel from the shock.

The man was a hero. Anakin Skywalker was a hero. But he is Darth Vader now.

 _With Padme…I felt differently about my place in the galaxy_.

 Anakin Skywalker is…was…handsome, yes. Just as Vader is handsome. But Vader has a fire in him, something burning deep at his core, that doesn’t appear in the earlier holovids. Skywalker was younger, happier. Less conflicted.

 _Amidala tore him away from the Jedi. You may tear him away from the Sith_.

No. No, Wilhuff is not the source of his conflict. He _cannot_ be the source of his conflict. Can he? Does Wilhuff exert such a hold, is his influence so great—

The comm in his ear beeps, and Wilhuff plucks it out to toss it onto the carpeted floor.

Why _not_ publicly acknowledge that Vader is Skywalker? Is it Vader’s choosing? Palpatine’s? Palpatine retains his name, though Wilhuff knows he also calls himself ‘Darth Sidious’. To have the Sith, whoever or whatever they are, occupying the seat of power…Wilhuff cannot see a problem in it, but where, exactly, is the line between a Sith and a Jedi? One is action, one is inaction? If that was the case, then the Jedi should never have become generals. Perhaps they called themselves Jedi, pretending to themselves, while drifting into the realm of the Sith.

What is he _doing?_ Wilhuff is no Force-user. He is not a mystic, to sit atop a mountain and ponder the nature of the universe. He is a man of action, just like Palpatine. Just like Vader. And no matter what they choose to call themselves, he is loyal to them. The three of them, this rough triumvirate, they have a singular vision for the galaxy. The station will help them accomplish that. Vader will help them accomplish that. Wilhuff himself will help them accomplish that.

And finding Amidala…

Finding Amidala is a preventive measure. His kidnapping was indication enough that the Empire is not as solid as it might be. She will only destabilize it further, if she is allowed to remain free. Vader seeks her for his own reasons.

Perhaps this is why Sidious—Palpatine— _the Emperor_ has given Wilhuff this task.

His neck and shoulders hurt, the tension of several days held in his muscles and spine. He is not tired, but there is a fatigue about him. Having no successes, no measurable progress…it is disheartening.

Another beep sounds, and he glances to where his comm lies on the floor. Is it really that loud? He sits up, watching it carefully, and another beep comes to warn him that the door is opening. Confused, Wilhuff turns, standing partially in preparation, but the shadow in the door makes him stop.

Vader is here.

Vader is _on his ship_.

Wilhuff inhales quickly, stepping back, and Vader counters by stepping forward into the room to let the door shut behind him. Neither of them say anything, waiting on tenterhooks, but finally Wilhuff releases his held breath to stand straight.

“Vader.”

“Wilhuff, I—” Vader discards his mask even more quickly this time, moving forward in a rush to grab at Wilhuff’s arms. Wilhuff finds himself leaning against Vader, somehow relieved and comforted by this presence, and he closes his eyes to try and think quickly.

“Wilhuff, I did not mean—”

“Shush.” Wilhuff hushes him, stepping fully into Vader’s embrace. “I was unkind. And I am sorry.”

“It was deserved.” Vader nods, still holding tight to Wilhuff’s arms. “I may be the Emperor’s apprentice, but that does not mean I can ignore your considerable power or presence. I should not have…shouted.”

“Mm.” Wilhuff nods, stepping back again to give them both their space, and he looks up to find Vader watching him closely. “You’re here now.”

“I…yes. I am.”

“And the Emperor knows?”

“Evidence suggests our work is closely connected. I have spoken with him about your comments.”

Wilhuff winces, shaking off Vader’s hands. “Comments made in the heat of anger.”

“Valid comments regardless. I had been focused on single entities, single points. But our work on Corulag made it clear that no rebellion is fostered by a single person. Even Amidala’s real threat lies not in her person, but in her connections. This is what Sidious appreciates about you. This is…what you contribute, that I do not.”

Wilhuff smiles faintly, amused by the pseudo-compliment, but nods in acceptance. “Did something happen? You called, apparently in a panic. And your response—tell me.”

“My work is rarely within the bounds of your concerns.”

“As High Moff, I could request the information anyway.” Wilhuff lowers his voice, leaning forward again to run a finger along Vader’s collar. “But as Wilhuff Tarkin, I want to ask politely. What happened?”

Vader reaches up, taking Wilhuff’s hand to study it in contemplation. “You aren’t surprised to see me here.”

“I’m glad to see you. I will not question whatever providence brings you.”

“We tried to contact you. When my ship reverted—”

“I was _ignoring_ my comm.” Wilhuff nods, shifting his hand to clasp Vader’s. “And I am continuing to ignore it.”

“You are rarely so forward, Wilhuff.” Vader hums, bringing his free hand to Wilhuff’s waist. “I like it.”

“Tell me.” Wilhuff changes tack, leaning closer. “What happened? What do you do, when you go off hunting?”

Vader’s face darkens, and he watches their hands for a long moment before speaking. “It was the thought of Amidala. You, finding her. And I entered a confrontation…with these hesitations. I was weak. I _weakened_. And the thought of my life, my past life, my former self—it was untenable. I could have broken. I could have failed.”

“And you would have recovered.”

“Would Sidious have allowed me that? He is not known for being kind to failure.” Vader’s grip tightens, and Wilhuff’s voice softens in response.

“You are capable of it.”

“Sidious is—”

“The Emperor keeps a tight rein on his subordinates, but we are not mere peons. We are co-conspirators in his goals. He knows this. His harshness is part of his aims.”

“I know.” Yet Vader’s grip does not relax, and Wilhuff watches him carefully.

“What did you find?” Wilhuff continues.

“What?”

“You see a connection between my work and yours. You’ve already searched for Amidala on your own, and you’ve successfully hunted Jedi. My work has hit a wall, likely where you encountered the same limitations. Is there new information?”

Vader does not answer immediately, but he does begin to relax, releasing Wilhuff at last to find a nearby seat and sit down. Wilhuff mimics the motion, retaking his own seat, and watches closely as Vader nods.

“The Jedi—after the order, they fled. They scattered. Like insects under a log, with no order or reason. But they still…there is still a link. There are still connections. They believe that their knowledge, their position as Jedi, grant them a cohesion outside of planetary governments or boundaries.”

“Our Jedi on Corulag—was she this way?”

“You saw her. She was working with others. Not Force-sensitives, granted, but she was maintaining a life. Fostering her ideals among her…group.”

“And now?”

“The other Jedi seem to emulate this pattern. They are seeking community, and in forming communities, they foster rebellion.”

“And if they convert important figures…”

“The Cirulls had money. That was important enough, on Corulag. Money, influence—as long as the Senate remains, these things will continue to be a thorn in our Emperor’s side.”

Wilhuff looks back to the viewport, avoiding the obvious comment. The Emperor is content to accept money and exert influence as long as it is in his favor. The Imperial Council and the assembled moffs are the same as the Senate, very nearly. But removing the Senate still holds value, if only for reducing the potential of the remaining Jedi.

“You fear that Amidala may seek out the Jedi for her own aims.”

“I know she will. My master—” Vader inhales sharply, clenching a fist, and Wilhuff sits up before reaching toward Vader.

“Vader.”

“My _former_ master. He lives, he—before. Before she…disappeared. They conspired against me, to hide her. She would naturally seek him.”

“Your master.” Wilhuff is gratified to find Vader taking his hand at last, nodding for him to continue. “You know his name?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi. Another scion of the Order.” Vader scoffs, relaxing back in his seat to massage the palm of Wilhuff’s hand. “I feel him moving. He still has direction, and order, in his life. He…”

Wilhuff is quiet, letting Vader think, and finally concludes that this discussion is no longer profitable. Vader lingers on his emotions, and they sometime lend him strength. But they are now only clouding his vision, not clarifying it.

“Is it worth our time to remain near Naboo? The documents can only tell us so much.”

“It would clearly be the place to start. But we have started. Twice over, now. Amidala would be wise to avoid the planet.”

“Which may be why it provides an excellent hiding place.”

“No. No, that is a useless path. The debate, back and forth whether or not she may be here—it gets us nowhere. She will move, and she will keep moving, to avoid detection until she seeks it.” Vader nods, eyes on the planet outside the ‘port. Wilhuff knows the feeling—but Vader’s attention is more focused and intense than mere relaxation would prescribe.

“We do not have the security—or the loyalty—to monitor every single piece of data in the HoloNet. Soon. But not yet.”

Vader sighs softly, nodding again. “So we are left to search.”

“And ‘Apoidea’?”

“The word is oddly translated. It is less a name and more a title. Like any decent shadow master, he or she or it is avoiding their real name.”

“It could be Mon Mothma. Having leverage on Mothma would allow us to press her for news of Amidala—”

“You’ve met the woman. She would never give up any information she never intended to convey.”

“But it is worth investigation.”

“Wilhuff, I know it is valuable information, but a passing reference to a coded figure is not enough for use to develop a pattern. We start from Amidala and work outwards, tying things back to her as they appear.”

Wilhuff bares his teeth, reclaiming his hand to fold both hands in his lap. “Waiting. After so much work—”

Vader nods, then tenses, sitting up in sudden alert. “Prepare.”

“Prepare?” Wilhuff furrows his brow in confusion, standing as Vader does, and they watch as two men stumble through the door before offering sharp salutes. One is Cass, always at the ready—Wilhuff assumes the other is a member of Vader’s staff, in a similar uniform to Cass’s. “What is this?”

“Sirs—”

“We were trying to reach you.” Cass interrupts, facing Wilhuff with a weighty stare. Wilhuff returns the gaze evenly, refusing to budge, and the other officer frowns deeply as he straightens.

“Lord Vader, there’s been a development.”

“There’s a ship that crossed through the Mid-Rim under Naboo codes, a starfighter—”

“Panaka confirms that he isn’t aware of it and didn’t order it, and the Naboo senator is currently here and hasn’t made any calls.”

“We’ve been monitoring all calls from the ship, and they’re changing their scrambling system every six hours—as far as we can tell from the records.”

Vader is tensed, standing solid in the middle of the room, and Wilhuff glances to him before looking again at Cass. For all the confusion about Vader’s earlier identity, Cass is handling himself remarkably well—and his glances to Wilhuff indicate that this ship is something important.

“You believe it to be her.” Vader speaks at last, earning a nervous head-shake from his adjutant.

“No, sir, but they’re contacting ‘Latona’, trying to reach a location deep in the Outer Rim—”

“Latona?” Wilhuff furrows his brow, prompting Cass to step forward.

“Like ‘Apoidea’: another code. ‘Latona’ is actually a reference to a Naboo myth, a goddess who stepped up from the sea to let her children wander on the fields—”

Vader makes a noise, some complicated _growl_ deep in his throat, and Wilhuff reaches out to grasp Vader’s upper arm before facing the two subordinates. There is not time for this, no time for Vader to vent his anger, no time for these two to ramble about their findings.

“What does it _mean_ , Lieutenant—Lieutenants?”

The other man, Cass’s counterpart, looks at Wilhuff for the first time, measuring him silently before looking again to Vader’s unmasked expression. The noise of the ship disappears around them, and the man squares his shoulders before he speaks.

“Lord Vader. We believe we’ve found the child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the end of "The Demands of Empire". It's shifted away from a strictly Vadarkin work and become more of a prologue to an Original Trilogy Alternate Universe story. Is there room to continue? Of course! Continuing, however, would mean the introduction of more characters and less focus on Vadarkin itself, so I would prefer to do a hard break and begin a new work going forward. I'm not quite done with this ship, just to be clear: but finding my way out of this narrative I've developed is a question for the ages. 
> 
> Starbroken deserves a great deal of credit for literally, and figuratively, and graciously becoming the unsung Vadarkin muse. I honestly don't know if I would have gotten this far without them. Walkskies on tumblr also has some delightful art that has kept me warm through the trials of writing. 
> 
> I'm available on tumblr at reinventionsreimaginings.tumblr.com, and I may put up a post with further ramblings and final thoughts at some point. The ask box should be open for questions if there's just something you're DYING to know. 
> 
> I'm grateful to every single one of you for reading and liking and kudosing and just interacting however you prefer: it's a wonderful little niche and a delightful part of fandom, and I'm proud to do my part to keep it going. Cheers to everyone!


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